


Heavy Glow

by Scarlet_Ribbons, Theboys



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, And then those things are explained, Basically Jared does things that make no sense, Daddy Kink, Feminization, Hitman Jensen, Human Auctions, Human Trafficking, Jared is kind of a size queen, M/M, More tags to be added, Mpreg, POV Alternating, Rich Jared, Rough Sex, Sick Jared, Size Kink, Slutty Jared, Some minor Jared/OMC, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8292287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: "With you touching him like that?" Jensen continues, doesn't much care to see Rafe’s expression. "I wouldn't ever let you die." Jensen's been a hitman for most of his adult life. He's worked for the Padalecki family for the majority of that time, and somewhere along the way, he became more than his job. They made him blood.The youngest Padalecki was raised in seclusion, albeit in the lap of luxury, due to threats on his and his mother's life while he was still unborn. Jensen's nothing without his honor and Jared seems determined to strip him of it.





	1. Ribs

**Author's Note:**

> Working on this with theboys has been such a pleasure! ;D Happy belated birthday, chica!

Jensen can hear the sounds of laughter from just inside the doorway and he can't understand why it rankles so much.

He's tapping out a beat on polished marble, or maybe it's also interwoven with pearl but he wasn't paying attention when Mrs. Padalecki had gone over the decor.

He's got a pinstripe tie on, maroon, and there's a kid he's pretty sure is hired just to follow behind him and swipe at his oxfords.

There's another laugh, high like wind-chimes, and suddenly the door flies open with an almost soundless groan.

Jensen steps back on instinct, fitted vest colliding with an expensive tapestry from Japan.

It's Jared.

Of course it is.

Jensen’s jaw tics underneath the ritual uptick of irritation just the sight of the boy brings.  

Jared’s hair is fluttering around his face and his eyes are wide and wet like he's just laughed himself to tears.

He's going through a “color purge,” and he's been wearing all black for three months now.

His friends are all unnecessarily supportive and Jensen takes pride in wearing the one colorful tie that he's permitted a day.

His foot jolts, swift flicker of motion but it's enough for Jared to whirl around on him, focus opaque eyes on his person.

Kid’s sixteen and a half, long and lean like he's just gonna keep on growing if they feed him good.

Right now he comes up just to Jensen’s shoulder and he's already striding closer, bare feet ticklish against a cold floor.

“I would ask if you're ready,” Jared begins, sharp teeth bright, “but I know it's kinda hard to sit with that stick you carry,” he finishes, and Jensen takes just one step forward.

The shit’s eyes widen infinitesimally but he doesn't move otherwise.

Baiting.

Jared doesn't want to be babysat for the whole auction, and to be honest, Jensen’s not too fond of it either.

Jared’s older brother had asked right after the family lunch and Jeff might almost be more brother to him than Jared.

Jared’s not close with anyone in his family except maybe Jensen and his mother, and the former isn't by choice.

“Are you coming, then?” Jared asks, crosses browned arms over his chest and tilts his chin up.

“Get dressed,” he says, keeps his eyes south of Jared’s face.

The kid is a bloodhound and he's absolutely spoiling for a fight.

He hates auctions.

That's just another arena in which they differ. Jensen adores them. They're the best part of the week and Jared’s only seen two since they brought him over from Crete.

“I'm ready,” he says expansively, still unmoving even though Jensen’s too close for comfort.

“Your mother wants you dressed. That includes shoes. You need a dinner jacket and I'm sure she's gonna insist that you bring a better attitude.”

Jared’s face twitches in mild disbelief.

 _“_ Why don't you go without me, since you already know what she wants?”

Jared’s all clean lines and his cheeks are high and soft with color.

Jensen grabs him by the arm, reflex from when he was younger. He still squeezes flesh between five fingers and Jared arches to tiptoes, mouth open on a whimper.

“I'm done. This is not the island. Christa isn't gonna clean up after you throw a fit. Your family has a lot of money.” Jensen pauses, hand still tightly secured.

“A lot of power. You're gonna respect something.”

Jensen doesn't make it a habit of talking so much, man of few words rather than a mysterious ploy.

Jared stumbles backwards when he releases and Jensen's already turning, fists taut by his sides.

-

Jensen’s not used to being driven around.

It irks him, the loss of control over his surroundings and Jared’s loose acceptance of the service only makes Jensen that much more aware.

Jensen sits in the passenger seat even though Ivan asks him, first in English, then in Greek and finally Russian whether or not he, “wouldn't mind sitting back with ‘young Prince Padalecki,’” which seems to be his equivalent of an appropriate honorific.

Jensen doesn't reply in any tongue and Ivan eventually ceases all attempts at conversation.

“I don't want to be in the front,” Jared says suddenly, and it's plaintive enough that Jensen turns halfway in his seat to face the boy.

“Your family runs the venue.” Jensen says it blankly, same manner in which he does everything else, and Jared wrinkles his nose.

“It's. I--it’s messy and I don't wanna sit there. Please.”

Jared’s mouth curls strange around the last word and Jensen hauls in his air, wonders why no one taught the kid about respect or honor or any of the shit that makes an old family _work._

“I won't leave early again. Not if we sit in the back.” Jared’s fingers flex in his lap and then curl around the cashmere hem of his sweater.

“And when we stay where we’re supposed to?” Jensen asks wearily, and Jared sucks that lower lip into his mouth.

“I'm not sitting there. I'm not. I don't wanna make a scene but I will _fucking leave, Jensen._ ” Jared’s breath comes heavier but he finally looks up and locks gazes with Jensen.

Jensen’s irrationally angry when he connects with damp eyes and he waves his hand in the air dismissively.

“They're more your family than mine,” he says, but he knows the both of them hear the unspoken; _but I respect them like they're blood, regardless,_ that Jensen doesn't much bother to conceal.

“Okay,” Jared breathes, almost too quiet for Jensen to hear. “Okay.”

-

The room is as crowded as it ever is.

It's dark, overhead lights swinging in imaginary wind. Jensen peers up at them, gnaws at the side of his thumb before he forcibly curbs the habit.

Jared saunters in ahead of him, hips swinging like he's going somewhere nasty with that whipcord body.

Jensen’s hand creaks as he curls it into a fist and he jams the punch into his slacks-pocket before he can do something Ill-advised.

Jared’s smiling, throwing bright eyes at everyone around the room and Jensen stays close only because he _promised_ Jeff.

Jared leans in to speak to an Antonelli, the youngest of the twelve-sibling tribe.

Mariana Antonelli wraps both arms around Jared in a hug and Jared kisses the top of her head until she squirms free in mock anger.

She's gesticulating wildly and Jared’s hair tilts into his eyes, soft shine of feathers that the no-light does nothing to dull.

Jared flits to the next guest and the one after that and it's all Jensen can do to keep up.

Auction is about to begin, the patriarch of the Antonelli’s stepping onto the half-stage with a bright grin.

Jensen scratches idly at dark fabric and allows his eyes to wander back to Jared.

“Over here, Jen!” Jared calls, so bright and slurred that Jensen regrets not cutting him off after the first champagne flute.

Jensen almost misses him, finds the boy perched in a lap, long-stemmed legs swinging.

Jared’s head is cradled against a chest, also swathed in black, and there's a large hand covering Jared’s collarbone, fragile marrow poking out from between man-fingers.

“Rafe’s letting me share,” Jared says, so shining that the other patrons smile indulgently, send him fond looks.

Jared gnaws on his lips, tucks the flat of his thumb in his mouth in what looks like a mild case of drunken confusion.

Rafael Antonelli has no business back here. The Antonelli’s are the row across from Jared’s family, as they've earned the privilege of this month’s auction set.

Rafe leans down-down, flicks Jared’s hair behind the curled porcelain of his ear.

Jared’s eyes flutter once, lashes sprinkled against that high-ass claret flame of his face.

His hands scrabble for purchase on Balmain slacks and Jensen’s across the room and at Rafe’s side in around the time it takes for him to casually feel for the Glock at his spine.

Jared’s got a neck like a swan, pale and spindly and the crown of his head connects to Rafe’s throat as he leans back to meet Jensen’s eyes.

“M’gonna stay here,” he whispers, surprisingly well. “I know you w-wanna, you get to sit up there with Mama and my father,” Jared breathes, and his legs spread open a little bit, just a shudder-sigh, whisper of space.

“He's fine with me, Jensen,” Rafe says, almost-kindly. “Jeff’s been asking about you anyway.”

Jared's head lolls a bit and then he presses pink-sticky lips to Rafe’s sternum in a bastard of a kiss.

Jensen uncurls his fingers, one by one, and he counts backwards from five in every language he knows.

It's a fail-safe and he straightens his stance, widens his legs so he can bend over far enough to catch Rafael’s eyes.

He keeps his gaze even as he slips both arms underneath Jared’s almost-slack body, allows air-weight to tumble into the stretch of his forearms.

Jared is barely with it, blinks the chrysalis-cage of his lashes up at Jensen with no intent.

His legs dangle and slip-slide against Jensen’s hip and he curls one hand into the collar of Jensen’s dress shirt.

“Let me make this clear,” Jensen says, searches covertly for Jeff in the crowd.

“He's not for you. And if, somehow, his brother gets to you before me, you'll be lucky if it takes him six months to kill you.”

Jensen’s already halfway turned around, Jared enthroned.

“With you touching him like that?” Jensen continues, doesn't much care to see Rafe’s expression.

“I wouldn't ever let you die.”

Jared’s fingers play with the freckled expanse of skin from chin to the top of his collar and Jensen sighs in honest-to-God anger.

It looks like they're sitting in the back after all.

-

Jared’s family buys seven different items, four men and three women.

The women go through the left door and they've already begun testing the first of the men, ten lash-marks each.

Jensen’s got a spray of blood on a cufflink and Jared is basically asleep in his arms when Mrs. Padalecki finally meets him, looks up with the same church-stained eyes.

She smiles so fondly at Jared, runs manicured fingers into the tumble of his hair.

Mariana walks past, stumbles, is a more apt description, and she looks at Jared longingly--maybe at Jensen? He can't tell.

“Can you take him home, sweetheart?” She asks, adjusts the crisp green of her pantsuit.

“He's been traveling all day and I know he was too tired to come but--” she bites her tongue and Jensen nods at the only woman he's ever called Mom.

“I'll tuck him in myself,” he says dryly, and Jared shifts in his arms at the words, curls against the ridges of Jensen’s chest.

Jared’s so slight, 5’7, maybe a buck-ten soaking wet.

His body shudders again and Jensen wonders absently if the kid is cold.

Sherri hums thoughtfully and leans up to kiss Jensen’s cheek.

“He's going to want to talk to you tomorrow,” she says quietly, still staring at her youngest.

“Meet him in his office when you can.”

Jensen knows his adoptive father was too busy to attend the festivities tonight, and that just means that Jensen’s got his work cut out for him.

“Of course.”

He spins on his heel and tries to avoid the snail-trail of blood leading to the exit.

-

Jared clings tightly, which makes the whole ride back to Jared’s private apartments an exercise in torture.

The warm weight barely registers on his lap but Jared grinds ever so slightly in slumber, trembles once or twice and then sighs his way to stillness.

Ivan’s humming the Hungarian Waltz, radio be damned, and Jensen takes the steps three at a time just so he can dislodge himself from the sweet scent of the littlest _shit_ on earth.

Jared’s cleaning team, his chef, and the other miscellaneous members of his personal crew seem to have the evening off, and Jensen was really counting on one of them to settle Jared into his nightly routine.

“Jesus _fuck,”_ he murmurs, and Jared chooses that moment to open his eyes.

His lashes are faux-long and obsidian and his spine arches so far that Jensen shivers and almost drops him.

As it is, he dumps Jared unceremoniously onto his bed and unbuttons the top of his vest.

“Change and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jensen winces at the sound of his own voice and Jared’s tongue peeks out from bitten swollen flesh.

“C--can you help me?” Jared’s voice is seven degrees south of normal and he holds his arms over his head with a decidedly drunken sway.

“S’hot. I'm hot and I wanna sleep,” Jared says, blinks like dial-up and Jensen sighs from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Think about that next time you decide to get so fucked up,” Jensen commands, and Jared is bobbing his head so vigorously that Jensen cups a hand against his skull in an effort to still it.

“In the front next time,” Jensen continues, unable to stop talking now that he's begun.

“You will sit with your family and you'll think about someone other than yourself.” Jensen’s chest stutters and Jared’s pink little mouth drops open.

“You're a fucking. You're a goddamn Padalecki and you will _act like one.”_ Jared’s whole body quivers like a bow singing through air and then he mewls, one soft sound.

Jensen plucks him free of charcoal and then Jared flops back against goose-down and unbuttons his pants and he's _not wearing anything underneath, not like anything could ever fit between skin and fine china_

Jared’s lean legs shiver and then he's tucking them all the way up to his neck and it takes Jensen a monumentally long time to realize he's so hard his dick’s developed a second heartbeat.

“Jesus _CHRIST.”_ Jensen groans once and Jared’s head flops to the side, just enough for all that hair to flutter over those spider-eyes.

“You gonna come down here?” Jared whispers, sloppy-pretty.

“Promise I'm wet. I _promise,_ ” Jared breathes, hikes his legs up with small hands cupped underneath kneecaps.

His feet are as dainty and tiny as the rest of him, model-colt and they twitch as the cold air shivers over the nut brown of his body.

Jensen takes three steps back and then looks around, disoriented, because he's never run from a fight.

“Please. Oh, please,” Jared slurs, voice rips into a whine and then he's sliding one elegant finger in between the furl of his hole and it slides in so eagerly that Jensen slaps Jared’s knees wider than those narrow hips allow.

“Did you rub on him like this?” Jensen’s hands are shaking and he makes fists but it doesn't calm him and he can't remember the number two in Japanese.

“Did you whore all over his dick?” Jensen’s unashamed, he breathes horror in real life and he's even nastier in bed, uncontrollable.

“You did. Mary, Mother’a God, you did.” Jensen’s always angry, somewhat, makes him efficient at what he was once hired to do.

“I let you show everyone that ass,” Jensen continues, and Jared’s mouth is slack as he pumps that one finger in and out, catch the thin nail on the paper-fragility of his rim.

“Ah, ah,” Jared gasps, eyes half-slanted.

“Just--he was so _b-big,”_ Jared groans, eyes widening with the words. His mouth is trembling and his hips come up with every slap of his small palm.

“Oh no,” Jensen says, sounds far away and he's sure his ears are bleeding.

“Oh no,” he repeats. “You've never had a dick, little boy; I would know.” Jensen’s unbuckling his pants and he wonders how much it costs to clean sperm out of Balenciaga.

“If anyone ever used you right, you wouldn't be so damn _hungry_ all the time.” Jensen knows he's gone well and truly past too-fucking-far, but there's no hope to be had now.

“C’mon, princess,” Jensen growls, “turn over and show me. Show me how wet you get.”

Jared’s almost crying and it's the most quiet jensen’s ever heard him.

His dick is candy-corn striped with color and it bobs against the firm abs of his slim waist.

He struggles to turn over, equilibrium shot and when he presses that slightly pale ass up it curves into Jensen’s open palm.

He's already so fucking _wet,_ slip'n'slide of an ass, thick and viscous against the backs of very-very gently bowed thighs.

“Here you are,” Jensen whispers, drags his thumb up one trail until it's damp.

Somewhere along the way Jared lost his finger, probably during the roll over, and now he's braced on his bubblegum cheek and spindly elbows.

“After this,” Jensen grits out, so hard a cool breeze could make him bust, “after this I'm never--” Jensen pauses to breathe on the push in, and the strangled sound that leaves Jared’s throat is borderline too much, too soon.

“Puh-please. God. _G-God,_ ” Jared whines, presses his whole face into feathers.

“I am _never,_ ” Jensen continues, settles balls deep and finally gets hands around that shell-cage of a waist, both hands can just about wrap around the expanse.

“Gonna watch you beggin’ for dick again.” Jensen starts to pound home, fuck propriety because Jared’s is sopping the back of his thighs and the very front of Jensen’s.

“Gonna fuck the answer right outta you.” Jensen’s breathing heavy and Jared lifts his head, spit all over his fucked-wide mouth.

“Okay. Oh-Kay,” he whimpers, spine arching as Jensen knocks them both a little further up the bed.

“I won't do it anymore. I'll stop, Daddy, pleasepleaseplease l just lemme come, please Daddy,” Jared gurgles out, half cognizant and Jensen didn't ever have a chance here.

He's already coming as soon as the kid first calls him that, first opens his mouth on that name that should never belong to him.

Jared’s eyes widen, fear-arousal as he's filled for the first time in all his life and he spurts in thick ropes beneath them both, hips circling wildly and his neck craned back for Jensen’s approval.

Jensen’s pelvis is still jerking forward when he reminds himself that he shouldn't have dragged Jared to the damn auction in the first place.

* * *

 

Jensen’s such a bitch about auctions.

But he gets what he wants anyway, because cooperation, even though it’s not something Jared grants easily, is something he usually always grants Jensen.

He's whipped for Jared anyway, and Jared’s been playing their game long enough to know as much.

Like when Jensen grabbed his arm earlier, callous fingers digging in, and Jared wonders if Jensen would hold his hair like that when he yanks him down on his cock.

It's not like Jared's _innocent,_ goddamn. He could suck Jensen off easy, so long as the floor isn't dirty and his knees don't sting afterwards. Jared's just rich enough that he could have plush carpet laid down just for the sake of choking down Jensen's cock.

It's like this. Jared knows how abrasive he can be, but it gets Jensen riled up like nothing else, gets Jensen looking at him like he wants Jared to call him daddy and bend over for the belt.  

Jared also really hates auctions, a fact that he’s tucked away from Jensen under the glossy veneer of a filthy smile and long eyelashes. He’s got this thing now, where he only dresses in black all the damn time, and the pants he’s shimmied himself into are gossamer and fine, almost like him. He’s a fairy boy, missing only his wings, and otherwise he’s just as ethereal as they are.

Thing is, Jensen believes in him even less than he can throw him, and Jared’s certain that’s because Jensen could pitch him across half a football field if he really wanted to. The way it goes, everyone tells Jared he’s Barbie-thin anyway, here, have a baklava or two or twenty. Hide those harp string ribs, boy, you’re not a model. He uses the honey as lip gloss and licks it up when Jensen’s around.  

He likes the way Jensen sucks in his breaths, loves the way he punches into his pockets as if he doesn’t know that Jared’s looking. Maybe he doesn’t.

Jared sparkles a laugh for Mariana Antonelli because she’s a doll, a rouge-cheeked doll with a pouty mouth that Jared would _murder_ for. Sometimes he does that- and he cherry-picks something from each guest that he wants. Mariana’s Kardashian pout, the twitch of Calvin’s cinnamon-tanned nose, Baby’s cherry-red tongue as she opens wide and sucks a grape from Chester’s mouth.

Jared has a bad case of guest-hops, his attention span requires something new every two minutes. It only relaxes around Jensen. He has a hard time focusing on Damien when he needs to go soothe Tanya’s heartbreak and kiss Jean’s tears away.

He’s in high demand, baby, but he also likes to cause trouble for Jensen.

He lifts his hand to swipe at something at his eyelashes, but he stops himself because he doesn’t want to smudge the delicate blend of ash and charcoal smudged over his eyelids artistically. He loves the glossy feeling of the brush as it teases the corners of his eyes and Nike-swoops into tiny wings.

He’s drinking too, liberally, ‘cause he’s got a sweet spot for the blush it gives him, loves the alcohol-fueled spark in his eyes. It gives him a new kind of life, makes the caramel of his eyes glitter. He’s a spotlight child; he likes when others look, beams and blooms like a forget-me-not in the eyeline of his tipsy company.

He stops in front of Rafael Antonelli. The broad taper of Rafe’s shoulders has nothing on Jensen’s, but he’s got these fucking hands the size of dinner plates, and Jared wants to be cocooned for a minute. Jensen’s better than a GPS- he’ll alert himself to Jared’s location in nanoseconds when he’s fuck-all pissed, so Jared just has a few seconds as he wobble-climbs into Rafe’s lap.

Rafe’s pretty good about it, his voice like cinder and smoke.

“Starving boy,” he drawls, patting his thigh in a parody of older-brother-kindness. Jared knows Rafe’s intentions are anything but familial.

“Not for food,” Jared breathes, tumbling back into the safety of older man. Rafe smells like the finest of cigars, and the bands of muscles in his arms stretch taut as they bracket Jared’s waist.

Jared knows that Rafe likes his ribs, so he lifts the other’s fingers to slot against his intercostals. Rafe rumbles like an engine as he presses and splays, and Jared gasps for breath at the attention. He sees Jensen turning towards him and laughs, tender and bright, before calling out to him.

“Over here, Jen!” He beckons, then lifts Rafe’s hand- not the one strumming his ribs, but the one with the flute of champagne. “Rafe’s letting me share.” He chirps, giggles, puppet-draped over Rafe’s body. He knows what it does to Jensen, the way he flagrantly shows off. It kills him.

Rafe tucks a wayward curl behind Jared’s ear and Jared wisps out a tickled little sigh, kissing his lip-gloss mouth to the rim of the glass. And when he lifts his gaze, Jensen’s standing in front of them, the thrill of the chase tingling down Jared’s spine and bringing him alive again.

“I’m gonna stay here,” he trembles in wait for Jensen’s reaction, eyelashes quivering like restless butterflies. “I know you wanna, you get to sit up there with Mama and my father.” He knows Jensen won’t let it slide, but there’s also the fact that the auctions rattle Jared.

Rafe plays along, unwittingly, and Jared wants to flourish a kiss on his hard mouth. It’s different from Jensen’s mouth, Cupid’s bow curves and all.

“He's fine with me, Jensen. Jeff’s been asking about you anyway.” Rafe’s voice is warm but he’s acted in soaps and all, and there’s dismissal there, too. Jared thrills at being fought over, because he’s a damsel, and leans back to smother a kiss against Rafe’s breastbone.

Anger is trapped in every pore of Jensen’s skin, fire never dying down. Jared’s breath hitches as he bats his eyelashes at Jensen, less than aware from the the diffusion of alcohol through his system.

He barely reacts as Jensen curves forward, abducts him from Rafe’s hold and into his own arms, but he knows he belongs to the latter regardless. His limbs seek Jensen’s skin like sunflowers aching for the medical drip of sunlight.

He only catches snatches of what Jensen is saying, most of it absorbed into the chatter and shrieking laughter from the crowd around them. But Rafe tenses like he’s gonna take an alcohol-fueled swing at Jensen, and he’s stupid if he thinks his washed-out movie star tricks hold even a drop of water against Jensen’s trained fluidity.

“He’s not for you,” Jared hears faintly, his ears seeking out the protective grit of Jensen’s voice. He’s desperate for it. “With you touching him like that?” Jared flits his eyes open to see the promise of threat sink into Rafe’s gaze, the other stiff and hungry for skin. “I wouldn’t ever let you die.”

Jared closes his eyes, and for a while, he sleeps, safe. He forces himself to doze the slightest, so he doesn’t have to watch the auction, so he doesn’t have to see droves of people being sold off.

But it’s the whipping that gets him queasy, like when he eats an extra slice of chocolate-sticky cake with buttercream frosting even though he’s heard what it does to your thighs. It’s harder to feign sleep through the tip of the whip cracking through the sound barrier and drawing rose blooms of blood.

He registers the touch of his Mama’s fingers, hungry for it, and slightly arches into the stern-soft hand before sliding back. He struggles for purchase against Jensen, not really concentrating on his Mama’s words. He’s too close to Jensen to wake up now, doesn’t care to stop feigning until he’s got what he wants from the other.

His Mama always has so many words for him. Hearing them the next day won’t make a difference.

Jared wet-plasters himself to Jensen on the drive back, shivering because he gets a reaction from Jensen when he acts like he’s cold.

Here’s another truth: Jared’s not actually wearing any underwear. He liked the way his pants looked fitting along his thigh gap, didn’t want to smooth out the obvious wrinkles of underwear no matter how many silky threads were wound together to make it.

So the whole ride back, he plans out reflex-quick movements that involve catching the seam of his unprotected cherry ass against the tamed bulge of Jensen’s jeans. The movements are candle-flicker-quick enough that it’s as if Jared’s just enough of a truck stop whore that he can do it in his sleep.

Maybe Rafe felt it too, the slick-wet between Jared’s cheeks against his fine suit pants. Jared always likes knowing when he makes the manly ones drip.

He wonders, idly, trapped in the prison of Jensen’s lap, if Rafe will dream of him. He likes to break hearts, every so often.

The night passes in a bit of a haze, and Jared’s coherent and sore enough the next morning to remember snippets before the main event. He glosses over Jensen helping him change, remembers the skin-deep strike of Jensen’s reprimanding.

“You’re a fucking,” Jensen didn’t stutter. “You’re a goddamn Padalecki and you will act. like. one.”

And of course, he remembers the sex. He remembers it when he’s brushing the copper of blood from his mouth when he bit his tongue, remembers it in the cold shower as cold water trickles down his back and between his ass cheeks, when he spritzes a cloud of his sweetest, pretty-boy-butterscotch perfume to snuff out the smell of sex.

He remembers it when he smiles through his sparkle-white teeth at the mirror, admiring himself, remembers the way he whimpered _Daddy_ for Jensen. He has no idea what brought it on, but somewhere tucked away in his buzzing mind he remembers the way he sang for Jensen, the way Jensen owned and used him like he meant nothing and everything.

And the slick slide of Jensen’s cock spearing him, driving up deep and reducing him to a puddle of half-fragmented words and the kiss of Jensen’s fingers against his slim corset-waist.

He loves being a skinny slip of a boy for Jensen, for Jensen’s cock, and at first he thinks he’s nauseous because he can’t even dream of letting a single other person fuck him at this point.

At first.

 


	2. Matteo

Padalecki land is so vast that he's about a mile away from Jared’s bedroom and he's just now turning into Gerald's office. 

He drops the keys with the valet he's known since the boy was seventeen. 

He takes the stairs one at a time, tucks his cigarettes into his inner pocket. 

He hasn't smoked in four years but he thinks about the blush-cream swell of Jared’s not-so-virgin ass and he figures he's long overdo for a fix. 

Boy was turned up in bed, sheets tucked just under his peach, left leg shoved all underneath his stomach so it pressed up even further.

He’d showered and dressed with the relative silence that spoke of necessity. 

Jared had murmured, stretched out hands and then fluttered back into sleep. 

Jensen had looked too hard at him before he left, casual click of his door. 

It's not that he feels badly. Jared’s always been beautiful, too dove sweet not to taste. 

Ever practical, he figures it was only a matter of time that his need for basic order would lead to him spanning the entirety of that boy's ribcage with one hand. 

No. 

The problem here is that he's got to deal with the fallout. 

Jared’s never been on a serious date. He's never so much as held hands with someone in front of The Family, and now Jensen’s gone and screwed him good. 

He imagines Gerald is gonna read it all over his face and his left hand twitches toward his breast coat pocket even as Gerald swings the door open himself and allows him to sidle in. 

“How's my boy doing?!” Gerald cries, plays the benevolent benefactor to the last. 

He's avoided any sort of prison stay by playing at a father figure, a community man. 

He drags Jensen inside with one hand braced on his shoulder. 

Gerald organizes large gatherings twice a week, auctions run smoothly, more so than when the Moretti’s were at the helm. 

Gerald breaks bread with the men that have shot at his children. 

The self-same man has cracked a Porter over top corpses, laughed with Jensen as he picked a man’s fingernails clean from his skin. 

Gerald lives the exact same way at work and outside of it. 

He once told Jensen that it was the only way to succeed. 

_ Son, when you spend too much time trying to be two men, the rest of your men are gonna be getting busy stabbing you in the back and fucking your bitch.  _

Jensen’s never learned a more true lesson and Gerald is still smiling gregariously over the wrought iron and oak of his desk. 

“Been a long time since you stretched your legs, I hear.” Gerald says it with an uptick at the end, like it's a question, but Jensen stays silent. 

“You know you never need to. Not anymore.” Gerald’s grinning but it's more subdued, like he knows Jensen needs the reassurance. 

“I thought you might want to have a little fun,” Gerald says, leans backwards so that his chair lifts off the floor, just a bit.  

“I need Bosko handled,” Gerald says, sighs  like he does when something is mildly distasteful. 

“No cloak and dagger bullshit, Jen, but feel free to make him work for it.” Gerald steeples his fingers on the still slim jut of his stomach. 

“He's been skimming for about a year now,” Gerald says, stands in the way that states he's been sitting too long. 

“Sometimes you get to play your heaviest hand,” Gerald says, voice somber during the teaching moment. “But you know I love it when I get to drag it out a little.”

Jensen knows this much about his father. He likes to watch people squirm, pushes it to the point where everyone will know that he  _ knows,  _ they're just waiting on him to decide what to do about it. 

In Bosko’s case, 24, son of a made man and therefore only a minor cog, Gerald waited until he'd pilfered enough money to warrant a slow death. 

Bosko’s father will catch the lesson, loud and clear. 

Not that it'll matter, Gerald loathes incompetence and if Bosko’s own son can steal from under his nose, he's pretty much worthless to Gerald. 

Jensen’s got two kills on his radar, one long standing and the other a trite necessity. 

He doesn't feel much ready for either. 

He's looking at Gerald and thinking about how he made his youngest call him Daddy, and how much he wants to hear it again. 

He wants Jared Padalecki to beg him to come, stroke his princess-sweet dick until he's crying for Jensen to graze his prostate, just once. 

He likes Jared wet-eyed and docile. 

He likes his face pressed-bloody. 

He wonders if he split his rim wide, but he knows he didn't, Jared’s as slick as they come. 

He wants to stop sporting a semi in front of the man he's aiming to be like. 

“So,” he says, and if Gerald is surprised that this is the first thing he's said all meeting, he doesn't show it. 

“You alright if I play real dirty?”

-

Jensen’s pretty much an idiot. 

He knows Jared, probably better than the kid knows himself, but avoiding him for the past six weeks is probably his worst mistake yet. 

He says this tightly because Jared’s sitting in his foyer right now, and he's got on this. He's wearing this tiny robe which maybe falls just past his cheeks when  _ standing _ , which is something he's definitely not doing now. 

Instead, his arms are all twisted around a neck. Not any neck. Not anyone. 

He's got Rafael in his home. He's got that cocksucking piece of FUCKING SHIT within the same four walls where he made Jared cream his little boy parts. 

He's only back and playing nice because Jeff hasn't been able to get him to go outside, to any parties, any malls. 

He's here to maybe give the kid some good dick and then be on his way, let Jared yell at him for his poor manners and untimely exit. 

All in all, he figures he's dodged one hell of a bullet. 

Jared's thin legs twitch from where they're sprawled around Rafe’s hip bones. 

They're on the floor, and Jared hates sitting on the floor. Why own furniture if you're gonna waste your time and your bones on wood. 

Jared’s tucking his chin underneath Rafe’s and he's got. 

He's got black (still with the color, he sees) thigh-highs on, scalloped gently at the top. 

Jensen’s really got no excuse for what he does next. 

He's got his Beretta and his Glock’s still in his rooms if he needs it, but this should be good enough. 

He strides forward, sees claret, vibrates with the same frequency as he does when a sure kill figures it'll attempt a last ditch effort. 

He shoots through the glass, and it shatters instantly, making Jensen snort at the lack of security. 

Jared screams, soft but somehow still high, and Rafe stands without a sound, Jared still pillowed around his body. 

Rafe’s keeping him up with one forearm tucked underneath that  _ surely  _ exposed ass, and Jensen cocks his head to the side. 

“Jen--Jensen,” Jared trembles, and he's a fucking idiot for tightening his goddamn grip around Antonelli. 

Rafe’s grown up in the life and doesn't flinch, but he does tuck Jared closer to his chest like Jared  _ belongs to him.  _

“Care to explain why you're suddenly into petty vandalism?” Rafe says conspiratorially, and Jared peers out of the crook of his shoulder with those wet eyes. 

His lashes are all stuck together and he won't stop shaking, like Jensen’s gonna be the one to hurt him. 

“Put him down,” Jensen says, straightens his arm so that the weapon is aimed directly at Jared’s temple. 

Rafe sets him down on coltish legs and Jared promptly collapses under his own bodyweight, just folds in on himself like cardboard. 

His legs are so sun-kissed in contrast to his socks and Antonelli’s hands twitch in Jared’s direction, like he's ready to grab and run. 

“I warned you once,” Jensen says, and Rafe is already backing up. 

“That's one more time than I give people I actually like,” Jensen says, and he assesses Rafe carefully, squints in some confusion. 

His brow is still furrowed even as he lets off the single shot, and Antonelli’s whole body rockets backwards with the force of the blow.

Bullet mushroom-clouds his brains and the sticky membrane and mucus that Jensen’s ever accustomed to floods Jared’s Persian carpeting. 

Antonelli’s face is unrecognizable and his body slumps forward, remains of his chin splattered over his collar. 

Jensen turns to Jared, bends down to meet him at eye level. 

Jared’s got three separate flecks of blood on his cheek and he's doubled over, fawn-hands wrapped around his middle. 

“You're not his to touch and you're certainly not his to protect,” Jensen says, reaches down to pluck Jared up from the ground. 

Jared tenses for negative seconds before he's curling that tight little body around Jensen’s. 

He stiffens all over again after a second and then he's fighting Jensen's grip with all of the strength of a newborn kitten. 

“Put me down, please, please,” Jared begs, and Jensen only holds him tighter. 

“He's good enough to hold you up but I'm not?” Jensen asks, incredulous. 

“He slip it to you better’n I can?” Jensen turns to the bathroom, braces Jared against one hip so he can turn on the sink water. 

“That why you fucking the both of us?” 

Jared trembles at the accusation and flutters between wakefulness and exhaustion as Jensen settles him on the counter. 

Jared lolls listlessly to the side and Jensen is quick to catch him, braces his small body against Jensen’s own thighs. 

He washes the blood away until Jared is pink and fresh again but Jared has no color underneath the forced scrub. 

“I told him not to touch you. I've always kept my word,” Jensen says, and Jared’s blinking slowly like he's struggling to keep up. 

“You. You left, though,” Jared whispers. “there wasn't any you. And he said he would--he was gonna keep me  _ safe,”  _ Jared continues, hot and hard. 

Jensen crams himself in between the suddenly wanton spread of Jared’s legs. 

“I been leaving since you were a kid, Jared,” he says, matter-of-fact. 

He presses close enough to lick at Jared’s bottom lip, nip it just right, so that it breaks skin and Jared’s oval-eyes well up. 

“Always come back, though, don't I?” 

Jared nods, all feverish as his hips hump up into nothing and Jensen realizes the robe is sheer, and Jared’s nipples peek forth in want. 

“You drive me crazy, huh?” Jensen lowers his voice, finds that Jared is mostly comatose, no matter his state of arousal. 

“Watch who you let around you,” Jensen says softly, pulls Jared back into his arms so they can make their way to the bedroom. 

“I'm never gonna touch you,” Jensen explains, so careful, because Jared’s jailbait and he's also confused. 

“But I got no worries about anybody else,” he finishes, and he figures he'd better get a crew in to clean up the splatter. 

He can either solo this one or wake himself up enough to kill the help after they're done. 

Jared’s the only witness he'd never bother with, and it's enough of a strain as it is. 

Well, he's not playing two different men, that's for sure. 

-

Jensen’s considering phoning an old contact when Jared finally stirs. 

He's been asleep for three hours, body shocked into slumber because of the ordeal and the sex. 

He's still tucked into that shift of a robe, translucent against the sudden pale of his skin. 

Jensen fumbles with his phone, scrubs his hands pink with the side of his thumb. 

Jared blinks eyes open and the top of his robe slides off of his shoulder, bares one slim collarbone, so prominent and thin against his skin. 

Jensen’s reaching forward before he can correct himself, running the calluses of his right hand against silk. 

Jared squirms at the touch and his eyes start to move beneath lids. 

This boy has never worked a day in his life. He's never killed anyone, and before today, he'd never even seen anyone be murdered. 

He's a part of a family that doesn't know who he is, so they coddle him, keep him wrapped up sweet because he's their precious baby flower. 

Jared turns over entirely and the movement presses Jensen’s hand just above the swell of flesh that makes up Jared’s nipple. 

Jensen plucks it gently, just a soft sigh, and he watches Jared’s body arch into the contact, catch-24 of his ribcage.

“P-please,” Jared stutters, and Jensen watches the way his mouth shapes the word.

Jensen follows the rise and fall of his nipple, slightly dusky from Jensen’s attentions. His eyes finally flicker, cast the ocean into Jensen’s eyes.

“Explain something to me,” Jensen says, and Jared sits up a little before he must recall what happened, his nakedness.

“No. No, I don’t want you here,” Jared whispers, and Jensen laughs, barks out the sound between clenched teeth.

“I didn’t figure you did,” Jensen says dryly, and Jared curls up those long sticks and Jensen leans forward instinctively, knocks them open even underneath the mink of Jared’s blankets.

“You’re always ignoring me. Even when you got a good thing. Even when I’m keeping you  _ safe. _ ” Jensen says safe the way other people say love, torn and rotten but still clinging on like a good-vine.

“I fucked you already,” he says, and Jared shudders, pale boy rocking backwards in his too-big bed. “Gave you exactly what you wanted.” He pauses, aches to snort a line or get messed up, clear his head for a second.

Killing Antonelli takes away a modicum of that strain, glues him back together so he’s in a place where he can think.

What he does need to do is figure out what, exactly, he’s gonna need to do to keep Jared from showing the soft pale of his inner thighs to anyone besides Jensen.

“You can’t come here. You can’t t--take me and. Jensen, you killed him. You  _ killed  _ him,” Jared breathes, and Jensen stands, looms so suddenly that Jared shrinks even smaller, damn near disappears.

“You got a problem with him dying? Wondering where you gonna get regular dick from now?” Jensen’s too hot and startled and Jared’s eyes bleed tears.

“S--not,” Jared begins, and then his spine stiffens and he smiles, all sultry and pink, cream-shine of his teeth.

“I’ll get my dick,” Jared enunciates, “from wherever the fuck I want. M’gonna hold my legs up to my---all the way up to my ears if I want to,” Jared says, breathes so heavily Jensen thinks he might go into shock from the thrill of it. 

Jared’s hips jerk and Jensen knows he’s getting wet under there, gonna inch those skinny fingers deep so he can prod at that slice of a hole.

Jensen knows that Jared baits him, presses him at every available opportunity but he looks so violent right now, struggling to sit up and confront Jensen about everything.

It’s around then that Jensen slings both legs over top of Jared’s body and curls one big hand around his throat, so tight that Jared’s body goes instantly slack.

“Say it again.”

Jensen leans in close, presses the slope of his abdomen against Jared’s small line of a dick. It’s hard and leaking and Jensen breathes heavily with the feel of it.

“Tell me again that you’re gonna share. Say it  _ again, _ ” Jensen threatens, one-two pulse of air in his head at the idea that Jared’s gonna be taking any dick but his.

Look at anyone but him ever again.

He can’t even explain himself. Jared annoys the hell out of him. He’s pretentious and beguiling and he spent six weeks away from the boy, fucking anyone with two legs and a beating heart.

He just needs Jared to understand that there’s no way he’ll be allowed to do whatever he wants. Not anymore, and in a perfect world, not ever.

Jared’s face colors wildly and then his hands convulse like he’s going into shock. His hands twitch upwards but he hasn’t got a chance in hell of moving Jensen, wet-bird that he is.

When he finally releases Jensen watches his eyes roll back in his head and he flops down against his pillows, exhausted.

Jensen presses a hand to Jared’s head, and he can’t tell if the trembling is coming from the boy beneath him or himself.

-

The Antonellis, well, the ones that still stay in the city from time to time, live on the opposite side of town. 

He’s got to go through early morning traffic across the I-5 and he’s pissed beyond belief by the time he gets there.

It’s not a habit of his to be late, even if he’s the only one who knew he was coming.

He’s got to fly out to Santa Barbara tomorrow on a meet and greet with Jeff and he’s twitching in the seat of his Beamer, on loan from Gerald until his real ride shows up in the next few days.

He’s got a hard time parking behind the expanse of unnecessary wealth, Audis and Porsches, three Bugatti Veyrons that Jensen salivates over, even in his rage.

They don’t know Rafe is missing yet.

They’re not gonna, Jensen had his personal crew come in and sort the mess out, and Jared’s got new a patch of carpeting and there’s fresh paint on his walls.

The crew’s run everything over so it matches the age of the surrounding area that was unaffected, and Jensen would be pleased if he hadn’t done this exact same thing too many times to count.

They’ll be wondering about Rafe in the next few days, and it’s about time that he plays his card.

It’s an old hand, and if people, especially people a part of the World, were as observant as they claim, they’d realize it’s his ace. He’s a firm believer in never fixing something that isn’t broken.

The door opens almost before Jensen can get a fist up to knock, and he knows they’ve had all the cameras trained on him since before he pulled up the street.

It’s strangely silent for a house that once held upwards of a dozen people, 90% of them children, but he steps inside regardless, peers down the long corridor that he knows from experience leads to the first foyer.

Early morning LA sun is beaming through uncurtained windows, and Jensen curses at the bright in his eyes. 

It’s Tony that greets him, careless in that mild way he has. Antonio Antonelli isn’t even supposed to be in town right now.

He’s due to go to Summit, and Gerald’s already left for it. It’s likely that he sent his younger brother in his stead, second-born Matteo, but Jensen’s not here to ruminate about Antonelli family dynamics.

It’d take too long anyway. Everyone’s fucking one another.

“If it isn’t the Surgeon himself,” Tony says amicably, steps aside to let him pass. 

Jensen squares his shoulders, accepts the name for what it is. Exacting. Told him that at sixteen and he hasn’t looked back since.

“There are reason you’re here at seven in the morning?” Tony’s got his hair tied up on his head and he’s surprisingly well dressed for this early in the day.

“I’d like to speak to your sister,” Jensen says plainly, and Tony laughs, guides him into that godawful living room.

It’s painted yellow, color of a too-vibrant sunset and it always makes him gag.

“Gotta be more specific, Jensen. I’ve got four, you remember.” Jensen ignores the jab and sits down on the couch, hands dangling between his legs.

“Not Cris,” Tony warns, all joviality leached from his tone, and Jensen reels back, affronted.

“Jesus. No. Not Cris. No,” he repeats, and Tony looks satisfied with his less than excited air.

“Mariana. I wanna see Mari.” Tony looks less confused by this request, seems to remember that Jensen is close to Jared, by necessity before it was choice, and Mari has long since been Jared’s favorite Antonelli.

Well, almost.

“Mari! Mari-baby,” Tony calls, keeps his gaze steady on Jensen even as his voice carries. Jensen doesn’t even think the kid is gonna be able to hear her brother in this tomb of a house, but she comes bounding downstairs regardless, skirt so obscenely tight that Jensen follows the line of her ass helplessly.

Jensen spies the shift of bodyguards just outside the patio window and nods to himself. Six out there, hasn’t been able to get the lay of the rest.

“Jensen Ackles,” she beams, tips strange eyes up to meet his face. They’re indigo-sky, and Jensen reels back just a bit in shock. “You came all the way here to talk to me?” Her teeth shine, top-coat highlight and Jensen remembers the tinny quality to her voice.

“Tony, you mind if we take a minute?” Jensen’s not looking when he asks, but there’s no question to it, and Tony eyes them speculatively.

Jensen’s not surprised and barely waits for Tony to leave the room.

Mari’s eyes dart to the doorframe and then back to Jensen’s eyes like she’s trying to tell him something he already knows.

“Where’s Rafe?” He’s not one to beat around the bush and her eyebrows fly to her hairline at the question.

She’s an Antonelli, though, and she schools her face into faux-nonchalance. “Around, I guess. Raffy doesn’t exactly bother talking to me every day, y’know.”

She cocks her head to the side, leans forward just a bit so he catches sight of teenage cleavage, and she smiles, feral.

“I figure if anyone would know where he was, it’d be you,” Jensen presses, and he can see her slipping, trying desperately to communicate that there’s no way on  _ earth  _ that Tony’s not listening to their every word.

There’s a camera around every corner.

Jensen’s heard it said that they’re even installed in the showers.

“If he’s with Jared. Mari, if he’s in the same motherfucking postal code as Jared, you already know what’s about to happen. I’m not gonna spell it out.” 

Jensen’s not usually this loud with his threats but he doesn’t want there to be any ambiguity when this moment comes back to bite him in the ass.

Mari’s shaking her head, half in disbelief, and Jensen holds himself stiffly.

“You call me when you find him,” Jensen warns, and then he leans closer, almost feels her little heart catch a beat. “Better yet, tell one of your brothers to give me a call. Long time, no talk,” he adds, and she bites down on her lip.

Jensen bows his head close enough and he can feel Mari’s breath on his cheek.

“Next time you want something done,” he hisses, both pleased and reluctantly impressed, “you call me personal, like a good little girl, and you ask me for a  _ favor.”  _

Mari is about two seconds away from fucking this up, calling Tony back too soon, when he hears a sound. It’s funny, in hindsight, because it sounds a bit like a wind-whistle, high and breathy.

It takes him thirteen seconds to realize what it is, and he doesn’t even think through the plausibility of his hypothesis, the contemplation of just how he would have gotten here, how long he’s been cooped up in some room.

He’s almost knocks Mari to the side in his effort to get past her and she’s already running behind, voice elevated in what sounds like real panic.

“Jensen! Jensen, Jesus, what’re you fucking doing?” Her pretty voice is high and breathless and he follows the noise.

It’s louder, closer he gets, rhythmic, and it takes everything Jensen has to yell out Rafael’s name, like he doesn’t know good and well that his little boy-slut is tangled up with some other goddamn Antonelli this minute.

“STOP. Fuck, Jensen STOP,” Mari demands, breathless, and Jensen can barely hear her over his own heart.

The whines cut off, abruptly, peeled back like curtains, and for a terrifying second, Jensen doesn’t think he’ll be able to pinpoint it again.

There’s a laugh, a soft squeal of enjoyment, like melted sundae on the fourth. It’s sticky-decadence. Jensen actually tremors all over, once, but it’s real, and he gently opens the door on the far left.

If he hadn’t already loathed Matteo Antonelli, he would begin, right now.

Jared’s curled in on his side, t-shirt rucked up underneath reed-thin armpits and his mouth is open in a slice-of-watermelon grin, so shameless that Jensen’s befuddled as to how he’s never seen it before now.

Matteo is framed around him, parentheses to Jared’s equation, and his dark head is bowed over that ridge of bone, big palms splayed in between the spaces like they were created for his hand.

Jared stutter-sighs every time--it looks like, every time Matt bites  _ down  _

And Mariana grabs at his bicep with surprising strength.

“Do not kill my brother,” she hisses, vehement in her demand. “Do not. Don’t touch him,” she continues, eyes darting between Jared and Matt and Jensen like a yo-yo.

It’s about this time that Jared decides to lift his tousled head, fix those wet eyes over on Jensen’s face. He blanches instantly, quakes so hard he falls apart underneath the weight of it.

Jensen focuses on the way Jared’s ass is framed in small boxers and Matt sits up, so languid and uncaring that Jensen almost knocks Mari off and into the door.

He leans up to tilt his head to Jared’s ear and Jared shivers with the words, flushes rosebud pink and ducks his shiny mouth.

“Think this is my house, Ackles,” Matt says, standing, covers Jared with a blanket and then reaches down to pick him up--like they just can’t seem to stop doing. Can’t let his boy down for anything in the world.

Jared, the beautiful fucking whore, Jared, sags into the embrace and Jensen can’t understand why he won’t just choose him.

Why’s he always gotta be somewhere else?

“It’s your family home, that’s true,” Jensen says softly, mouth dry and uncertain. Much as he’d like, he can’t kill every Antonelli, and especially not this one.

Matt’s got a sight more power than Rafe was ever likely to amass, and they’d all know. He’s barely able to control himself right now, which is beyond out of character.

He’d have murder written all across his face.

Jared looks at him then, eyes accusatory but warm, and his face is so damp with tears that Mari makes a strangled sort of cry behind him.

He’s already about to press that small face into Matt’s neck and Jensen summons all of his willpower.

“Will you give him to me.” He grits out, lightheaded from forcible lack of air. “His mother wants him home,” he lies, pretends that he didn’t just slaughter their brother and threaten their youngest.

This is his retribution.

Matt’s running his hand through Jared’s hair, but there’s nothing soft about it, he catches the nape of brown at the end of every third pass and jerks Jared’s head back, just enough for Jensen to catch sight of Jared’s Adam’s apple.

Jensen’s blood is pouring, sloshing everywhere like liquid tar and Mari finally releases him and he immediately misses the grounding presence.

“I can’t leave here without him.” It’s as close to a threat as he feels safe enough delivering, and Matt seems to know it, looks at him the same way he did when he, Jeff and Matt were kids.

“So don’t,” Matt says, doesn’t bother feigning a smile. “Stay and watch.”

Jared’s arms tighten and he whimpers, hiccups a small cry. Matt’s hands don’t waver and Jensen thinks he should have saved his get-out-of-jail-free card for this motherfucker.

“Matteo,” Jensen says, slips into the Italian pronunciation like he doesn’t have mostly German ancestry. “I’m not asking again.”

Matt surveys the situation and, like Jensen, finds it lacking. It takes him one and a half paces to deposit Jared into Jensen’s arms, and another span of arm to pull Jared’s head back just enough to kiss him, firm swipe of tongue into his cottoned mouth.

Jensen’s entire body rebels at the fact that he’s holding Jared up for that kiss, and he must make some kind of devil-sound because Jared chokes out his air and sucks his defiled bottom lip into his mouth.

He knows, God he knows that Jared’s been toying with the Antonellis for years, but he had no idea the depravity extended to this level.

Jared’s still clinging to him but he’s limp and Matt’s still looking. He’s not moving but he’s still staring.

“Oh, careful, Jensen. You be careful here.” Matt says, and there’s no malice in the sentence.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Jensen acknowledges, and Mari steps aside as Jensen turns sideways to fit Jared and his shoulders out of the doorway.

“I can walk,” Jared whispers, mouth still tacky. 

“Not fast enough,” Jensen says back, keeps his eyes straight ahead and not on the little upturn of Jared’s nose.

“Please lemme down,” Jared begs, and he can hear Mari following them, high hiss of her voice at Jared.

“Jay-baby,” Mari says, sounding slightly out-of-breath. “Jay, for your own sake, shut the hell up.” 

Jared must glare her into submission because she stops chasing them, braces hands on knees.

Jared begins to wiggle, struggles to get to the floor and Jensen walks them both out of the Antonelli nightmare and he buckles Jared in himself.

“This time, when I fuck you,” Jensen says, slides behind the wheel and attempts to reverse, “it’s gonna keep you in bed for a long time.”

* * *

Jared really loves his daddy.

It’s evident at this point that there could be at least three people he’s thinking of, but he’s got Gerald on his mind; the man’s hard not to like, jovial and kind-hearted and really one of the scariest people Jared’s ever met. 

But right now, he really doesn’t want to run into Gerald, at all. Gerald’s got this fucking creepy sixth sense thing going, where he can smile and stare into your soul and pluck your secrets out along with your eyeballs. Jared’s pretty sure Gerald will never lay a harming hand on him, but he can’t afford the weight of the lie he’s omitting. 

Instead, after he throws up nothing but sticky strings of saliva, he flutters his way down the stairs like an injured butterfly, trembles his way across the foyer like a skittish horse, knows he doesn’t have to worry about Jensen seeing him because Jensen’s been gone for weeks. Jared’s bones have started to ache from the loss. 

He quivers his way into the dining room, where, to his shock, Mariana sits with half a cinnamon bun between her pout-perfect lips and her eyes affixed to her diamond-studded iPhone. She looks up from her sticky treat to see Jared and sets it down, licking her lips like a curious gossip-hungry cat.

“You look terrible,” she drawls, sucking on a fuchsia-tipped fingernail. “Yanno, Jared, baby, I worry about you.” He slinks into one of the fancy chairs beside her and she flicks his chin. “Mm-mm-mm.” She peers at him and he feels so ugly, so goddamn big, even though the bulge is barely noticeable. 

“What’s wrong?” she continues, and Jared absently rubs his belly and shies away from the cinnamon bun as if he thinks its sugar can magically infiltrate his skin. 

“I feel big,” he whispers miserably, and he knows, he knows his own body, and he knows he’s not just putting on weight. How could he be? He barely eats his own body weight in a month. But that’s all he tells Mariana for now, and her entire expression crunches into one of sympathy. But Mariana’s just as good an actor as any of the other Antonelli, and her eyes glitter with mirth.

“Baby-doll, you stop that this instant,” she scolds. She’s gleaming with the excitement that he usually only sees bubbling in her when she’s heard some saucy scandal, and she presses close with eyes on his -  _ huge, ugly  _ \- belly. “So…” She licks her lips. “Did our little sugar prince find himself a daddy?” 

Jared jerks at the word, dragonfly eyes piercing wide, fragmented in wanton shame at the fact that that still turns him on. “N-No, I mean…” He lowers his head. “I miss Jensen,” he admits, wilting like a flower without sunshine, and Mariana peers at him, probably because she can’t see shit through her violet contacts. 

“Mmm,” she hums, and then arches one perfectly shaped, plucked-clean eyebrow. “Well you know what you do to make him come running, honey, don’t you?” She idly scrolls through another layer of hot pink bikinis and flicks her eyes at him when he tips his head into a shake. “You make him jealous, of course.” She lets out a wild cackle and side-eyes his stomach, and Jared puckers his shoulders at the wordless implications.

He has this idea. It’s goddamn idiotic, downright suicidal, but Jared’s taking no chances here, he’s aching and hurt and he needs Jensen. He pushes his hand against Mariana’s soft, uncalloused hand in thanks. Girl’s never worked a day in her life, but she knows some of the good stuff. 

“So, you want Jensen to come running?” Mariana continues, sucking on her own tongue, “Well, he’s got. He like, doesn’t like Raffy that much, does he?” she drawls, long and sweet, her words soaked in saccharine sweet. “I betcha if you snuggle up to him a little more, Jen’ll be your lapdog again.”

Jared’s eyes plead, wet. “But, um, what if Jensen does something drastic? What if he,” he gulps, throat wobbling, and Mariana follows the curve of his collarbone. “What if he kills Rafe? Jensen is so, mmm. Dangerous, and.” He wobbles. 

“Raffy can take it.” She sounds sure of herself. “He’s a big boy.” 

Jared teeters for a moment, unsure, and then extends his hand like a creeper for Mariana’s phone. She allows him, returns her attentions to her glossy sugar-trap. Jared tentatively taps at the screen until he finds Rafe’s number.

Rafe’s voice pours through like whiskey, swimming in liquid gold. “Mari.”

“Jared,” Jared corrects, with a hysterical little smile.

“Jared,” Rafe sounds amused now, warm again; he’s been Jared’s for six weeks, and he’s more whipped than cream. “You staying hungry for me?” 

“Yes,” Jared whispers, moving his fingers to his ribs and pressing ‘till it hurts. He curls a wan grin, Mari’s eyes on him as Rafe whispers sweet nothings into his ear. “I… I need, um. I just need you to come over, later today.” He bites his bottom lip and chews until his teeth scrape. “I…” He looks down, “I’m, I’m not wearing anything..  _ Under,  _ you know. Just thought…” He breathes out sharp. “You might want to know.”

Rafe is silent for a moment, and then his voice quavers slightly, longing. “ _ I’m going to eat you alive.” _

Jared closes his eyes at the words, letting them curl around him like a song. “Mhmm,” he hums, dreamlike, and then shifts, away from Mariana. “...Tell me more?” Because he’s starved for it, for Rafe’s attention, and he soaks the love up like a sponge.

Rafe shifts on the other end, pauses, and then articulates. “I’ve seen the way you shake sometimes, Jared,” he rumbles on the other end, and Jared lets himself drift for a moment. “You’re starving for it, that’s why…” He chuckles, tender, “That’s why you’re my starving boy. It’s never enough for you, is it?” His voice drops low, greedy. “Think I’ll get my tongue in you today, precious?” Jared squeezes his eyes shut, remembers Jensen claiming all his boy parts. “Eat up my fill of you, leave you sore and open and begging for more? You always beg so pretty, Jared.”

Jared’s muscles are taut, but it’s not because of Rafe. He imagines calling Rafe  _ Daddy,  _ just like he called Jensen, imagines the wet of Rafe’s mouth swallowing his cock down and slicking up his insides. He could make it work, but Rafe would never be Jensen.

“You talk a lot,” he whispers, and Rafe hears the smile of his words.

“Hungry little tease,” Rafe whispers back, and it sounds like love. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Sitting in Rafe’s lap feels like being his trophy. One paw of a hand hugs Jared’s slender-slip of a waist, the other flutters over Jared’s slightly growing belly. Jared won’t talk about it; Rafe doesn’t ask. He merely palms the stretched skin and murmurs his love-soaked promises into Jared’s ear, and Jared presses into the touch at first, back sloping, before slipping away like quicksilver.

Rafe smiles indulgently, cups his palms over Jared’s back, and lifts the lightweight into his lap without even a sound. Jared’s arms loop about Rafe’s neck and he continues to shake, because he could swear he feels Jensen’s gaze, but he never called Jensen. He doesn’t have enough time to form a conclusion, because just as he’s winding his legs around Rafe’s sturdy hips, the glass of the window explodes.

Jared keens, wild-eyed, but Rafe plays protector and stands, Jared’s whole weight settling against his banded forearm. Jared’s been startled, and like a wild bird he flutters away from Jensen and into the safety of Rafe, tightening his grip. It doesn’t take much effort from Rafe to tuck him away into him like he’s glass.

“Care to explain why you’re suddenly into petty vandalism?” Rafe is almost friendly. Jared wants to tell him to shut up, to shut the fuck up, and then it occurs to him that Mariana is way too pretty to help Jared without her own agenda. 

Famous last words.

Jared quivers, doesn’t want to be let down, and he darts a dark, wet glance at Jensen from under his eyelashes. Jensen’s gun, locked and loaded, lowers to aim at his temple, and Rafe calmly lowers the skittish limbs to the ground. Jared tumbles down like his strings have been cut, and he locks his limbs close. He doesn’t need to hear the exchange to know what’s going to happen, and his wild eyes affix to the ground as the gunshot sends Rafe’s already dead body reeling back.

_ I’m going to eat you alive. _

Jared’s the quietest, sweetest kind of hysterical. His hands close around his midsection, naturally to protect, and Jensen’s looking right into his eyes with his unrelenting, piercing gaze.

“You’re not his to touch,” Jensen says, hands reaching out for Jared, “And you’re certainly not his to protect.”

Jared has Rafe’s blood on his cheek, and he’s shaking minutely, his throat working. And he can hear Mariana’s voice assuring him that Rafe can hold his own against a trigger happy Jensen- God, he was so  _ stupid. _

Jared allows himself to be immersed into Jensen’s body, even wraps his arms around him, but then he remembers Rafe’s body tumbling back and the way Rafe loved him. But he can’t fight Jensen; his whole body aches from the loss.

“Put me down, please, please,” he whimpers, but Jensen’s arms do the opposite and hold him like a vice. 

Jensen doesn’t like that; Jared hears the incredulity of the voice when he asks if Jared would prefer Rafe’s cock, and, really, Jared’s felt the hard press of Rafe’s dick against the seam of his barely-covered butt more than a couple times, but Rafe’s not Jensen.

His mouth is sealed with shock, like cement; he can’t deny a single accusation and his eyelids shutter like a faulty camera’s as he’s lowered to the counter. He’s listing again, but Jensen cages him in and holds, forces him awake like sweet poison. Jensen cleans him, not with the gentleness of a mother but ritualistic, until he’s blush-pink on the surface and trembles underneath.

Jensen mentions something about keeping his word, and Jared faintly remembers Mari and Rafe dancing at the last Antonelli family ball, Mari dancing and shimmering her way across the floor in a dress like twinkling stars and Rafe’s paw of a hand around her waist. Jared doesn’t know why he ever thought Mari wouldn’t indirectly try to wash her hands of Rafe and his blood.

“You,” Jared gulps, his throat bobbing with more of a lump than it has the capacity for. “You left, though. There wasn’t any  _ you,”  _ his voice crackles. “And he said he would keep me safe.” 

Jensen’s tucked between his legs like a prayer, hard and restless and angry. “I been leaving you since you were a kid, Jared.” He says it like they’re chatting about the weather, words dripping with a sense of false casual. “Always come back, though, don't I?”

Jared has this problem. It goes like this: sometimes he forgets their exchanges, because whatever Jensen does with his tongue and dick and hands, they override Jared's simple biological remembrance of their communication. 

Jensen's a bastard to his short-term memory capacity.

He promises he won't touch him- even though there's a fantasy glittering like a freshly laid egg, still warm from the night before, where Jared imagined that Jensen touched him  _ wrong,  _ choked him, made him bruise and bleed internally. 

He hastily shoos it away as he's dropped with a careful, unceremonious facade- because he knows he's Jensen's precious, most precious thing -onto the bed, because God damn, he was promised a fuck he'd never forget. 

Jensen’s by no means romantic. Jared’s given up on his Disney dreams, let them drown in the poison of Jensen’s rough voice, because he knows on any day he’d take this over the wonder of being whisked away by Rafe and treated like a queen. Rafe could give him anything he’s ever wanted- safety, love, a bouquet of cream lilies with virgin pink centers, if Jared asked.

But Jensen gives him what he  _ needs.  _

And what he needs is raw, unfettered, brutality, in the form of Jensen’s teeth tearing at the unaware pucker of his ass, tongue swirling and spiraling out over Jared’s tensed muscles. Jensen’s tongue curves into a loop, presses into Jared and leaves him wet and sticky inside, and most importantly,  _ used. _

Because Jared’s got this thing where he wants to be loved until he’s crumpled and sick from it, until he’s lying facedown in his own mess and sobbing. Jensen’s cruelty fans the flames of Jared’s want, has Jared quivering both away and into the ivory teeth seizing at his neck, right below his jaw. 

“Is he still-” Jensen moves back down, and the scruff of his jaw scrapes at Jared’s cheeks, the skin going pink with the branch-scrape of prickly hair, and Jared mewls out a muffled sound into the pillows. “Is he still gonna keep you safe?” 

Jared’s tight, but he eases at the breach of Jensen’s fingers, legs parting like the bloom of a flower. He drips for Jensen, snug warmth of his insides hugging Jensen’s fingers as they crook in his body. 

“From  _ me?” _

Jared can’t breathe; Jensen’s pressing the hard line of his dick against the furl of Jared’s hole along with the fingers he already has inside. Jensen can feel both fingers and hard, unyielding flesh inside of his body at the same time, and Jensen, in a fluid thrust, pushes until he’s so deep in that Jared can almost taste him at the other end.

“ _ No one can save you from me.”  _

Jared quivers, windows of his eyes spilling. He arches back, moving just so the head of Jensen’s cock grinds over his nerves. Jared’s salamander belly fills with Jensen’s cock, expands, and Jensen’s fingers creep up from Jared’s navel to grip at the swell of skin. Jared knows how much Jensen craves how he feels in Jared; he always strokes the point of entry.

“Fuckin’ greedy,” Jensen grits, slamming deep again. “You’ve got- my fingers and my dick- and you’re still so-” Thrust, and, “damn-” push, and, “ _ greedy.”  _ Twist, inside, hips swiveling with a particularly brutal thrust. Jared’s making these aching sounds, bouncing forwards from the thrusts, and his toes are curling and he’s panting for breath and his nails are tearing into the luxury silk of his bedsheets.

“I-I’m,” Jared gulps, heaves in a breath, “Sorry. I’m sorry, Jensen, I’m sorry, I’m s-s-” He stutters, tapers off into a cry as he’s drilled into silence.

“I bet you are,” Jensen says, nasty. “You always get-” He hums, rocking into Jared almost thoughtfully. “-apologetic, when you’re choking on my dick.” Jared squeals as Jensen drives home once more, trembles with needy little sobs. 

“You think-” He reaches under Jared, swipes a thumb over the head of Jared’s dripping cock, “-You think you can prance around with every Antonelli? Huh?” He squeezes the heart-shaped head until Jared’s full of breathy apologies and wheezing little sobs. “Maybe you think one of them will whisk you away, because you’re such a pretty little thing? Maybe one of them will-” He smirks, filthy, his voice crippled with amicable jealousy. “-steal you away?”

“No,” Jared keens, “That’s-  _ not-” _

“Oh, that is  _ exactly  _ how it is.” Jensen purrs, his voice a low rumble beside Jared’s ear. “The way you’re gonna cough up my jizz, though, I don’t think you’ll be saying much.” He reaches under Jared’s body, scoops under his pale, soft armpits, and  _ yanks  _ him back onto his dick. 

Jared makes this shrill, unidentifiable sound as he's damned and left to writhe on Jensen's dick, trapped, his tongue jammed against his bottom row of teeth and gagging him. 

“You could die, here, on my dick,” Jensen seethes into his ear, “ _ right where you belong.” _

The orgasm that results is shattering, Jared's energy streaming from his limbs and leaving him to crumple like a paper flower towards the bed. Jensen catches him by the ribs, fingers slotted between his hollow bird bones, and holds him just a few inches above the bed. 

Jared's fingers curl around Jensen's wrists as he's pumped full of Jensen's slick, so much that he leaks cream all over the velvet sheets, and then he's gone, spiraling into a blissful darkness. 

He doesn't register Jensen wrapping him back into the silky gauze of his robe. 

\--

He calls Matty the next morning, when Jensen leaves.

Matteo Antonelli. He calls Jared  _ nightingale,  _ but he’s not Rafe. He’s more like Jensen, all steel and possession.He left bruises splotched along the inside of Jared’s wrists the last time Jared called him Matty; Jared still does it, faithfully.

Matty doesn’t bruise his wrists anymore. Or, at least, he doesn’t bruise him where anyone can see- least of all Jensen. Matty’s a stealthy fucker; he thinks too much like Jensen to get caught by him, but it works the same way when the roles are switched.

“Nightingale,” Matty greets, and his words curl from his lips like cloves and cigarette smoke. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Jared closes his eyes, remembers the last Antonelli he begged for over the phone. His mouth tastes like tacky guilt as he chews his words out. “I- I need you to k-kidnap me for a while,” he pleads, laying his head across the countertop. “I- I gotta be away from. I gotta.” He fists his nightgown in his hand.

“Can’t say things like that to me, Jay,” Matty warns, and there’s nothing sweet there. That’s the critical difference between Matty and Rafe; even Rafe’s warnings, they’re fond, as if a roll of the eyes and a pat on the head is punishment enough for Jared’s petty sins. But Matty doesn’t fuck around, and he’s not fucking around now. “Because, y’know, if I do kidnap you good and proper, they’ll never find you again.” He laughs, sharp like black pepper. “Even your watchdog wouldn’t be able to sniff you out, that’s how good I’ll lock you up.”

Jared shudders, once, cold water streaming through his veins. His lips feel blue. 

“What,” Matty drawls, slick and charming. “Did I scare you? Hm?”

Jared trembles, his hand settling against the swell of his abdomen as he smooths his nightgown down. “Yes…”

The honk from outside startles him bad; he butterfly-flutters to the front door and peers through the drapes framing the glass windows. Matty’s impatient; he hates waiting for anything, and he’s never waited for anything in his life. He’s not about to start now. Jared slides his slippers on and flicks his frail circle-wrists, cracking the door open.

Matty doesn’t bother unlocking the passenger seat. Jared lowers his head as he crawls into the older man’s lap.

“Sweet boy,” Matty groans, his voice so like gravel that the soles of Jared’s feet prickle. “Right where you belong.” The sleek black doors slide shut on their own, even the inanimate objects bowing at Matty’s feet, and Matty curls an arm around Jared’s waist and nestles him close.

“J-Just.” Jared trembles, knots his arms around Matty’s waist for safety at their speed as they weave through traffic and elicit angry honks. “B-Be careful.. And keep both hands on the wheel.” He has a baby to watch out for, after all.

Matty huffs out an incredulous parody of a laugh. “You giving me orders, nightingale?” Matty’s got his fucking gun out, has had it in his sleeve since Jared got into the car, and the hard muzzle strokes right above Jared’s hipbone delicately. As if Matty knows he could touch, but he’s just making sure Jared knows exactly how fucking deep in all of this he is. 

Jared closes his eyes, the shadows of his eyelashes flickering on his arching cheekbones  in the dim light of the car. “It’s illegal, Matty.”

Matty’s eyes gleam as he spans a hand over Jared’s backside, thumb dipping into the small of his back. They’re ripping through country road, and Matty doesn’t have a goddamn hand on the wheel at all. “I’m so  _ hungry,”  _ he grits out, “You finally gonna be mine, nightingale? Or are you still your watchdog’s little rent boy?”

“I-” Jared gulps, stutters, and he swears Matty’s the only dog here because he can smell the fear. “I don’t belong to anyone.” 

Matty grins, hard line of his dick trapped between his body and Jared’s, and he’s gotta get off on Jared’s bunny-rabbit-fear. “When you’re with me,” he whispers, drags his hand through Jared’s hair and wraps a few silky strands around his knuckles before yanking, jerking Jared’s head back. “You sure as  _ fucking hell  _ belong to me.” 

Jared’s heart is beating at too-many-to-count beats per goddamn minute.

“You so much as  _ think  _ about Ackles,” he hisses, gun kissing the hollow of Jared’s throat, “I’ll crawl into your wet boy dreams and put him down myself.”

Matty carries him into the house with one arm, and Mari, standing right outside her door, double-takes and chokes. She’s in this number that squeezes every underage curve she has to offer, but Matty barely spares her a glance.

She’s got this look- this fever-glint in her eyes -that Jared doesn’t recognize, but it doesn’t matter because Matty’s swinging the door into the wall with alarming force as he unloads Jared down onto the bed.

“Hold it.” He demands, shoving Jared’s nightgown up past his ribs. Jared’s fingers move, and Matty stops him. “With your  _ teeth.”  _ He hisses, and goosebumps ripple over the planes of Jared’s lollipop-pink skin. He quivers, tucking the gauze of the nightgown between his teeth as Matty grips one hipbone.

“Missed the way your ribs taste,” Matty drawls, his other hand curling over Jared’s slender thighs as he leans in. Jared makes a breathy little sound as Matty’s teeth dig into the unprotected skin between his brittle bones. “Hmmm.” He swats at Jared’s knee, and Jared’s opened his legs enough for Jensen to know that he’s supposed to roll over now, like Matty’s bitch.

He winds up on his side, a bitter taste flooding his mouth as he releases the gauze. If only Jensen ever stayed, Jared wouldn’t have to… To. 

Matty’s starved for Jared, and he bites, bites, bites, drives his teeth into Jared’s intercostals and colors him purple. His tongue is unexpected, swiping just beside Jared’s nipple, and the surprised, delighted squeal of laughter sparkles on the seam of Jared’s upturned lips.

“You like that,” Matty observes, almost fond, his gun tapping absently against one dimple. He moves it away, and then of course Jensen’s bursting in to fuck Jared’s vetting process all the fuck up.

Jensen’s.

He doesn’t actually  _ burst,  _ more like gently knuckles the door open, but Jared freezes like a fawn, quakes like a mouse.. He knows Matty would have stalled Jensen as long as possible, producing traffic and manipulating traffic lights with all the fucking power he’s dripping with, but Jensen’s a resourceful bastard if nothing else and it wouldn’ta stopped him for very long. 

He’d climb out and walk through traffic to fuck the Antonelli plans up.

Jensen’s giving him the once over, and in the tiny distraction, Matty’s tucking his gun away. Better for all of them that Jensen stay blissfully unaware of the gun Matty defiled Jared with. 

Matty lifts his head, lowers it to Jared’s ear. 

“ _ You’re so far from safe,”  _ he hiss-whispers, and Jared trembles, lowering his head as he feels fever-red flush his cheeks. His face is wet; the cool air brings a chill to his skin.

“This is my house, Ackles,” Matty continues, flicking his wrist and tossing a blanket over Jared before bracketing his corded arms around Jared’s body and lifting him. 

It’s the furthest thing from  _ safe  _ but that’s what it feels like. Matty’s got a talent. 

Jared’s got no idea what Matty really thinks of him; he’s got a pretty face but he’s never certain what someone like Matty would ever do with him. It always feels like Jared is freewheeling right back into Jensen’s arms.

“It’s your family home, that’s true.” Jensen’s still, exuding wry confidence even in the presence of the darkest Antonelli. He’s got that look in his eyes, though, the one Jared recognizes as a tell. Matty’s not scared; if anything, he just cocoons Jared tighter into his arms, but he should be. Jensen’s amicably modest, but his trigger-finger isn’t just good for Jared’s ass.

Jared just stares at him, wanting him  _ so badly  _ all of a sudden. He wants to keep Jensen, but Jensen’s walked out on him time after time. He sniffles, the air still prickling his wet-sticky cheeks. He angles his head towards the safety of Matty’s neck with a delicate little sniffle when Jensen speaks. Relief trembles through his veins as he looks back.

“Will you give him to me. His mother wants him home.” Jensen lies through the grit of his teeth, question word but no question. It’s bullshit, but Jared squirms a little as if to indicate to Matty that he’s desperate for a fond mother’s smile.

Matty’s wrist slides through his hair, fingers jerking at the sloppy-silk strands and baring Jared’s neck for Jensen. It’s the jealousy-inducing shit Jared wanted, but Matty might just as fucking well be flaunting his latest territory acquisition. 

“I can’t leave here without him,” Jensen says. It’s a threat neatly packaged into a plea, with a ribbon on top. Matt isn’t fooled.

“So don’t,” Matt’s not even joking anymore; he’s taunting, tempting Jensen to make a move, any move, and his feet are relaxed against the plush carpet. His lips don’t even twitch. “Stay and watch.”

Jared bleeds a little mewl of a sound, hiccupping and swiveling in panic.

“Matteo,” Jensen doesn’t fucking stutter; his accent drifts.  “I’m not asking again.”

Matty stands still for a moment, calculating, while Jared does some of his own calculations- whether he’s safer going with Jensen now, obediently, or clinging to Matty to protect him. Truth is, Jared’s not safe no matter who he picks in this scenario. Matty’s not done after he deposits Jared into Jensen’s arms, though; he fists a hand in Jared’s air and yanks him backwards for a hungry, firm kiss involving a stealthy swipe of tongue that maps out the warm-wet of Jared’s needy mouth.

Jensen’s emits a strange sound, and Jared reels back, blushing and wet. 

“Oh, careful, Jensen. You be careful here.” Matty says, and he’s a wolf.

But Jensen’s a riled mother bear, and he’s just as goddamn bad- worse.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Jensen utters after a moment, then maneuvers Jared outside- and that’s when Jared really sees Mari, who’d faded into the surroundings during Matty and Jensen’s little pissing war. 

“I can walk,” he manages as Jensen strides through the grand foyer, under the watchful eye of Tony Antonelli. His mouth tastes like Matty, like ash.

“Not fast enough,” Jensen returns, sharp like glass. 

“Please lemme down,” Jared mewls, and for some reason, Mari directs a hiss at him in favor of Jensen’s obvious irritation. 

“Jay-baby,” Mari all but pants, her skin glistening, one violet contact shifted slightly to the right. “Jay, for your own sake, shut the hell up.” 

Jared glares at her, increasing intensity over the span of five seconds until she gives up and buckles, curling into herself as if she’s defenseless and didn’t plan Rafael’s death from building block one.

He struggles, hoping to be put down so he can at least pretend to wobble to the car, but Jensen’s like Matty and goes so far as to buckle him in, making sure he’s snug and settled.

“This time, when I fuck you,” Jensen says as he lowers himself into the seat and flicks his gaze up to the rearview mirror, Jared determinedly finding his eyes. “it’s gonna keep you in bed for a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... Ahem. Theboys and I have a weakness for Matteo, which... I guess is obvious, oh dear.


	3. Pointbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains another POV for the story! ;D Hope you guys enjoy!

Jared catches him fucking Elise Porcelli two months later, and that’s when shit hits the fan.

He’s in between jobs, and Jeff’s back home for the first time in three months, holed up in the big house and coddled by their mother.

Jensen can’t stop watching Jared flash his tight ass, sit at the very front during Auction, albeit not drinking, but present, high flush to his collarbone that never escapes notice.

Jensen sits right next to him, one memorable time he dragged him right into his lap, opened those thighs around the thick splay of Jensen’s legs and made him watch like that.

Prior to that, he thought he’d been keeping an okay secret about the fact that he was moonlighting as Jared’s only fuck, but the whole family has him on edge after the stunt.

It was that or he was crawling into Matt’s lap again, and that’s just not an option.

The Antonellis are already on edge, there’s going to be a war once they find out who murdered Rafe, dredged his body up from the false grave Jensen had him buried in.

They’re looking at Jared like he’s something to covet, and Jensen finds himself frightened for the first time in his life.

So he wants to scent-mark his boy-bride. So what?

How’s he supposed to do it if Jared won’t stay still long enough for it to happen? Jared runs from him at every turn.

Presents his ass so eagerly and grinds ugly-pretty.

The other night he broke his boy, made his ass flutter around nothing, shiny-pink and dripping with cream and slick.

His hips were rose-violet-blush and Jensen’s entire hand frames each of his boy’s sides. They’re gonna see him.

Wherever Jared goes when he’s trying to break Jensen’s back, his soul, they’re gonna see his hands and the raw-shine of his body.

He asks his boy, says, “what do you need? Huh?” He presses his dick so far inside Jared that when he reaches his hand around he can _feel_ the outline of his own cock in Jared’s concave tummy.

It’s all the kid binges on, sucks it so deep that Jensen’s eyes roll back in his head.

“What’s gonna make you--” his hips stutter as the dirty-wet-slurp of Jared’s ass drags him back in, “what’ll make you _stay?”_

“I just--” Jared chokes on miles of cock and sighs, deep-satisfied. “P-please don’ stop,” he slurs, “you can’t go,” he cries, all spitroasted and Jensen gets angry all over again.

He’s not sure what to do when Jared comes in, all flair and statement, and Jensen’s just. Well, there’s no excuse for it.

Jared’s been too busy playing with the Antonelli’s and Jensen’s about had enough. He’s sick to death of watching Jared’s pretty little mouth open on laughter, Matt scoop him up in the false name of play.

Matt’s hands roam freely and Jared shudders and blushes and knocks him away but he’s so fragile about it that Matt keeps coming back, more bold than before.

Some of that is his fault, he knows.

He can’t seem to stay around his boy long enough for anything to stick, but that’s because Jared drives him up a wall.

He looks at him with those no-good eyes and that Cheshire grin, and Jensen knows he’s getting played for a fool.

He’s not partial to the feeling and he won’t stand for it.

Jared’s got a threshold too, and it seems that Jensen’s knocked him into it. Elise is splayed out all over his bed, in the apartments he keeps pristine because he’s never home, either balls deep in Jared or in another city.

It’s strange to fuck in here, mess with anyone without mile-long limbs and a fly-trap tummy, but Jared’s supposedly out with Mariana, and that just means one or four of her damn brothers are set to be crawling around Jared.

So, it comes as a nasty shock when the door to his condo slices open, and Jared comes rolling through, oversized black sweater on his too-pale frame.

He’s not wearing any pants, or if he is, the sweater is so big that it conceals them entirely, and he’s got the first splash of any color Jensen’s seen on him in more than half a year.

His converse are maroon-high tops, and Elise is squealing and Jensen’s thinking about how that’s his favorite color.

Jared’s face is unnaturally flushed, like he just got up and was sick, fever-bright and his cheekbones carve through his skin like wounds.

He tucks small hands into the excess of his sleeves and Jensen’s still rocking his hips forward instinctively.

Elise is groaning with want but her head turns in Jared’s direction and she stutters out some kind of apology, but it’s sort of ruined by the way Jensen’s thrusts are stealing her breath.

“Y--you,” Jared stutters, and his face drains, bone-washed and he pants like he's about to keel over.

Elise is shaking and Jensen stills, smiles sardonically.

“You mind waiting outside, sweetheart? I'll be right with you.” Jensen’s having perverse fun with Jared’s face, the sickened way he backs up and wraps loose arms around himself.

“I can't--Jensen you're such a fucking _asshole,”_ he cries, his breath is choppy and he doesn't yell like Jensen wants.

He wants the little slut to scream, he's loud enough when he's getting dicked down or wheedling for his way.

Jared turns and spins, reaches up to his head and takes two handfuls of thick brown and pulls so hard that he does end up crying out.

Jensen’s taken aback by the display--Jared would never hurt himself--and he clamps one hand down over Elise’s mouth as he slides out.

Jared’s hands fall away in slow motion and Jensen shoves Elise to the opposite side of the bed so he can grab at his sweatpants.

He's not a casual dresser, prefers to be prepared for any eventuality, but time is like molasses, and he's too late to avert disaster as Jared crumples to the ground.

Jared’s still awake when he gets to him, but his eyes are rolling back in his head and it's like he’s not fully there.

“I hate you,” he murmurs, over and over, even as Jensen’s curling his arms around the sharp slope of shoulder blades.

“I can't. I can't breathe without you,” Jared adds, and Jensen stutters out some kind of shocked sound.

“I can't do it alone,” he says, reaches up one hand to grab at Jensen’s face but falls well short, latching onto fabric instead.

“Don't make me raise it alone. P--please don't go away again,” Jared says, falters on the last words and then he really does pass out, limp weight trapped in his arms.

Jensen’s mind is catatonic but his body works well enough, keeps a firm hold on his boy while he tries to work out what Jared just said.

Can't raise what, exactly, alone?

Elise is eerily quiet behind him but he can still feel her presence and it's that he's aware of as he gently lifts the hem of Jared’s shirt.

His boy is flesh and bone, beautifully tapered, all except for the small swell of skin resting at the center of his body.

Jensen reaches out a hand--how long has that quivering appendage belonged to him?

And he brushes against the skin with two fingers and the digits ebb and flow against the warmth of flesh.

He can't touch, too afraid of what he might feel. This thing. This _otherness_ all swollen inside Jared’s frame.

Jensen tucks his fist against his mouth, leaves his forearm underneath Jared’s back for support.

He can't recognize that sound, it's like a low wail, some bastard-cross between a growl and a cry and it's a little lapse in time before he realizes that he's the sound.

He's unfettered, he's rocking them back and forth, settling on his haunches and he's chafing his knees and there's nothing but this moment.

“Jensen?”

His name is quietly uttered; there's a question in it somewhere, but there's no way the answer matters.

“Get out.”

That's not his voice either, that rough-hewn thing, but he doesn't bother looking up, too busy _loathing_ this boy-child who’s swollen with someone that belongs to not-him.

He can hear Elise ignoring him, scooting closer with the curiosity of someone who has heard of the Padalecki family, Jared in particular, lost baby of the royal house.

She thinks she’s soundless, comes within a breadth of an inch of them and Jensen’s not going to repeat himself.

“Your father wouldn’t recover if I killed you right now,” he says, pinched and plain, and Elise gasps, skitters back.

“Jesus, Jensen, I just wanna--is that him? The one they kept hidden his whole life?” Elise sounds too hungry and Jared’s head lolls listlessly, and Jensen’s free hand is still shuddering from where it brushed against the heat of his growing skin.

He swings his forearm back, practiced motion that cuts Elise off just below the knees, sends her sprawling on his ass with a crash that _he_ feels.

“Fuck!” She yells, and Jared winces in his stupor.

Jensen’s burnt by him but he can’t seem to stand and release.

Elise seems to have gotten the message, picks herself up and runs out around him, only half-dressed even though she should’ve been ready to go, what with all the time she spent ogling Jared.

For the first time in his life, he’s not sure where to go from here.

-

In the end, he takes Jared home.

It’s the only thing he knows how to do, and Jared’s motionless the whole time.

That frightens him, but what’s even more catastrophic is that he’s gonna have to tell Gerald. Gerald is still out of town, but he’s gonna raise hell when he finds out an Antonelli knocked his son up.

It leaves such a foul taste in Jensen’s mouth that he dry heaves.

For a split second he wants to believe the kid is his--much as he never pictured himself with anything small and breakable, but Jared flits from Antonelli to Antonelli. There’s a plethora of them.

Jensen’s not even in town enough to have fathered that baby, and the odds are ever against him.

How can Jared act like he wants him to stay one moment and then--Jensen’s got two options.

He can remain here, buffer Jared’s news, he can start a family war or he can get the hell out of dodge.

He’s not a runner. Never could afford the luxury.

When Jared was eight years old he skinned both knees learning how to ride a motorbike.

He wasn't nearly old enough, too small for his age even though he was like a puppy in that way that states growth spurt.

It was too big for him. He was raised like an only child, unaware of his older brother and his other life, and Jensen was forsworn not to tell him.  

He’s thinking about it when he packs, tosses shirts and glasses and suspenders in a bag, doesn't fold.

It's messy and he wants to reorganize but there's no time and Jared’s thick and swollen-heavy, all flustered and with child.

Every tendon on his arms flexes, strains with the disgust and he thinks about drilling a hole right in the center of Jared.

The soft parts of him, rounded and belligerent.

He wants blood.

It's familiar but it's got a different tang to it and he can't quite get a handle on how to approach it.

He's liable to make a mistake if he goes out now, tries to solve this the old-fashioned way. He can't figure out which Antonelli would've knocked Jared to pieces, and that rankles almost as much as the betrayal.

Is it betrayal, thought?

God knows Jared’s given him enough grief over the years. Cycling all the way back to that damn motorbike.

Grabbed at Jensen in that way they taught him, all need and ownership, hair forever tied up on his head in a way that he won’t do anymore even though it reminds Jensen of an era long forgotten.

Jensen’s just now introduced to the Family, met Jared’s Dad when Jared himself has only seen pictures, gotten calls from a secure network that changes IP addresses based on an algorithm.

He’s got bright eyes.

If Jared ever asked him what he remembered most about his childhood, Jensen would only be able to say that.

Not that he ever would.

Jensen’s got a place in the world and Jared is volatile. He always has been, petulant and brilliant in equal turns. Jensen’s never been equipped to keep up.

He’s making too much noise now, his hip knocks against the doorframe and he can see Jared, curled into that too-large sweater, pink-sweet of his hands tucked under his chin.

He’s like a cherub and Jensen’s hand twitches, almost drops his duffel at the instinctive response.

He reaches, just a little, like he did when he thought Jensen was someone to be trusted. To understand.

He’d sat right in front of Jensen on the bike, too-brown thighs taut with baby-boy muscle and splintered together with band-aids and hope.

He was always a fragile thing, often sick when he was younger but Gerald consistently flew in the best doctors, kept the kid in stable, if not good health.

Made of marrow and pink diamonds, the kid was, and Jensen shivers to recall. He doesn’t. Recall, that is.

They’d crashed.

He knows it happened in slow-motion, sleek fast-n-furious turn of metal and childskin and Jensen tucks every single limb around this nobody-boy and Jared’s _crying_

He doesn’t realize he’s making noise until the one in question stirs, lifts his head even though it seems too heavy for his body.

“Jenen,” he mumbles, and this time Jensen does rear back, fist connects to expensive drywall and the dull ache of idiot-pain is grounding.

Jared hasn’t called him that in years, doesn’t call him much of anything except _Daddy_ , all pinched in his sugar-throat.

Right now, he can’t figure out if that’s better or worse.

Jared’s blinking heavily, and his body sways from that half-up position he’s squirmed his way into. Jensen knows, from experience, that he’s going to collapse under the weight of his own exhaustion, and Jensen can stand and watch and Jared won’t be any the wiser.

He wonders if he could get the truth out of him, right now, in the Between.

“Which one did you take,” he says, whispers it half to himself but Jared’s making this small, wounded sound and Jensen’s torn between wanting to murder and wanting to press that pillowed body down into the mattress and _own._

“You let some Antonelli fuck you stupid and bare,” Jensen says, to his audience of lethargic one, “and you let me keep--”

Jensen presses a fist to his mouth and turns to leave.

He looks back at nothing.

 

-

It’s Carmine Antonelli that he ends up meeting, in Prague, of all places.

He’s there on an errand that’s at the bottom of the list, something Gerald insisted could wait indefinitely.

He’s not around to knock off loose ends anymore, hasn’t been that since around Jared was ten, still unaware of his lineage and twice as beguiling.

He’s got no great love for the Antonelli Family, but they’re old. They’re Capone old, existing within the same timeframe and maybe meaner, if that’s the case.

There’s a level of respect that’s rough-hewn but sincere, and there’s not a night that goes back that he doesn’t turn over his decision to kill their third-born.

They meet on the Charles Bridge, decrepit and historical, hovering over the Moldau like a spectre. It’s ominous in a way that Jensen doesn’t appreciate but Carmine has a flair for the dramatic.

He and Jared have always got along swimmingly.

Carmine’s uncharacteristically quiet, he and his sister are the only blonds in the family and Jensen thinks that in another life, they might have gotten along.

They’re both too pretty to be initially taken serious, and while Jensen has opted to let his work speak for him, Carmine’s always liked to have a little fun with his food.

“There’s no use asking you this back home,” is his way of greeting, and Jensen almost gapes at him, doesn’t quite catch himself in time.

Carmine’s in oxfords and some kind of cable-knit sweater and he’s chain-smoking in a way that makes Jensen jealous. Tourists and children scatter around them, Czech and German and a little Russian if you listen hard enough.

“You flew all the way out to ask me a question?” Jensen says shortly. While incredulous, it’s not unheard of, given that Tony makes grand gestures every once in a full moon.

Jensen’s already completed his job and now he’s just loitering, exploring the Jewish Quarter and the remnant of what was once the Sudetenland.

Carmine shrugs, smiles now and turns to face Jensen fully. They meet, eye to eye, exact same height and a year apart.

“My sister’s smart but she’s still sixteen,” Carmine says, and Jensen blinks once, allows Carmine to continue.

“What’d she promise you to get you to kill my brother?” Carmine doesn’t blink but his mouth is still twisted up in a high grin and Jensen thinks they’re all feral.

“Didn’t need to promise me anything,” Jensen says after a pause.

If they’re going to snipe him they’d have already done it. Tony wouldn’t have murdered him outright but he would have already incapacitated him.

“Rafael never touched you,” Carmine says, still smiling with shark-teeth but he’s understandably angry underneath the calm.

“Rafe was the softest of us,” Carmine says, almost apologetic. “Besides maybe Elena,” he rectifies, but then he’s back, drums his hands on ancient stone.

“He had a job and he did it well but he never wanted it,” Carmine muses. “If you didn’t end up doing it, Tony would’ve had it done.”

Carmine’s face is flat. “There’s no room for that in an Antonelli,” Carmine says, dry-bitter laugh that Jensen can relate too.

“Gerald’s youngest,” Jensen says carefully, and Carmine’s head whips up, snake. “Now that makes this _twice_ as interesting.”

Jensen starts walking; Carmine is welcome to come if he can bother keeping up.

Carmine pauses and then follows, half a pace behind. “He was yours there, for a while, wasn’t he?” Jensen sputters out some kind of laugh.

“No. Jared’s not anyone’s.” Jensen hopes Carmine can hop on his private flight back home and take that as it comes, but Carmine’s not that shade of pleasant.

“Oh, I don’t know how true that is,” Carmine says, smiling congenially. “Used to curl up to my dead brother pretty often.”

At this point, they’re practically midway through the Old Town Square and Carmine’s examining the architecture like that’s why he planned a spontaneous visit.

“Mari didn’t have to make you do anything,” Carmine laughs in the realization, bright and sun-kissed and Jensen takes back that thought about them being friends.

“She’s even smarter than I gave her credit for,” Carmine muses, “too bad she hasn’t learned to keep her damn mouth shut.”

Jensen stops, dead center of Wenceslas Square. and Carmine almost runs up the back of his legs. It’s crushed with people this time of day, long-rectangle of space ill-suited for this encounter.

“Two dead Antonelli’s won’t weigh any worse on my conscience than the one,” Jensen says, faces Carmine without the cloak-and-dagger bullshit.

“I buried one brother and I let your other brother dig him up,” Jensen says. “I’ve done a lot of fool shit but you keep to your place, Carmine.”

Carmine’s mouth tightens, still a broad hint of that charming grin that Jensen never quite learned how to master.

“I’ve got the weight of my family,” Carmine says, falls back into step with Jensen so they’re strolling side by side, old friends in the Old Town.

“Who’s gonna defend you?” Carmine winks broadly as two girls stop to ogle him, and Jensen studiously ignores his own admirers.

“You think Padalecki won’t throw you back from wherever he picked you up when he finds out you started a war?” Carmine pauses slightly, whistles through tight teeth.

“For his _youngest._ ” Carmine repeats. “Pretty little thing, too. I’d do a lot for those eyes,” Carmine adds, and Jensen’s got a blade on him that’s handy enough for dispatching pests.

He trembles with the want, digs crescent moons in the calloused flesh of his palm.

“What do you want, Carmine?” Jensen asks, skips to the point so they can stop sightseeing in this place that wouldn’t be so welcoming if it knew, exactly, what they were.

“I want us to forget Rafe’s name,” Carmine demands, hard and fast like Jensen can agree with. “I want you to keep us out of war.”

Jensen breathes, air tinged with cold. “You’re in luck,” he says dryly, “wasn’t exactly planning on running up to big bro and confessing my sins.”

Carmine shrugs. “I’ll help you cover, when the time comes.” Jensen knows well enough that Carmine is saving his Ace, but Rafe isn’t his blood and he’s already done enough in the name of a temper he learned how to curb a long time ago.

Carmine nods, attention already flattened.

“You’re good to stay away from Jay,” he adds, steps back to meld into the crowd. “That’s too much for even you, Ackles.”

Jensen’s got some kind of retort on the tip of his tongue but it disintegrates along with the threat.

-

He’s still in Prague when he gets an international call from Jeff.

He accepts immediately; he and Jeff once made a rule that they never called during a job.

If Jeff is calling then Jensen better answer.

He picks up on the third ring, tucks his 9mm into his belt and hums his answer.

“Two things.”

Jensen is silent and Jeff takes the appropriate response as permission to continue.

“Upper Silesia is potentially involved in the untimely family death,” Jeff says, so careful on an overseas line.

Jensen doesn't have much to say to begin with, so speaking in riddles has always appealed to him.

“They’d directly benefit from an altercation between us and them,” Jensen admits, and Jeff hums thoughtfully.

“The way the bereaved are looking, there won't be anything with us. They’re gonna hit Silesia first and expect our backing.”

Jensen's never been directly responsible for anything that could hurt the Family, always been the one to clean up their messes.

He can't imagine telling Jeff what really happened. Telling their father. Gerald’s amicable, even up into the point of death.

Jensen doesn't really think the man will have him murdered, but there's really no way to know.

Jensen has always dealt in absolute truths.

“Do you need me back home?” He cuts to the long and short of it and Jeff heaves a sigh he can hear all the way across the world.

“Yes and no. Yes, because you know things I don't, and also to deal with the youngest.”

Jensen's chest tightens when he gets the first mention of Jared in weeks.

He's written Jared four separate letters and all of them remain unsent, addressed with everything, stamp included.

They're uneventful things, dry and bare like himself and he can't bring his hands to release and let Jared see he isn't quite as special as it seems.

He's got the last one sitting near him, half-scrawled after meeting Carmine in a place splattered with so much death.

It's not to be mailed, too personal and far too full of incriminating information, and he's a fool for even putting pen to paper.

Jared used to love to write, half-choppy sentences on broken paper.

In between temper tantrums, glossy-print boy with flyaway hair, he’d eked out his thoughts.

Jensen recalls the edges of his mind, sitting in the sand on Crete where Jared learned Greek and Jensen learned tolerance.

_In the nowhere cage_

_Crippled by circumstance_

_Altered by rage_

_Fester, he does, product_

_of the nowhere cage_

Jensen’s got it saved, throwaway paper stuck to a leaflet in the bottom of his things.

Jared hated that one, all violence and ill-humor, tore it away from Jensen in a fit.

_You can't read my things. I don't ask what you do for my Dad. I don't ask you things about him._

He's sure he's got more, squared away for when Jared’s as ethereal as ever and decides he wants to let Jensen in again, help him understand.

He's silent too long and he comes to with Jeff saying “hello,” in varying degrees of concern.

“Sorry. Sorry, got lost in thought. I was on my way back anyway,” he lies, planned to hop on over to Austria right after this, get lost.

“Good. Good. God, you can help me sort this shit out. Dad’s not gonna be back for another two weeks.”

Jensen nods to himself, considers avoiding Jared for all of that time.

Jeff doesn't need to know he's not staying.

“Thanks. I don't know what I’d do without you.” Jeff sounds sincere, always was, treats the business like it's a multi-national legal enterprise and he's just looking out.

He's earnest, something Jensen doesn't see enough of, but he's slaughtered with his best friend by his side and Jeff’s like his father in that it rolls right off his back.

He's extraordinarily protective of a brother he grew up knowing in pictures and videos and some memorable letters.

Jensen makes a noncommittal noise and hangs up.

-

The first letter runs like this.

_It's freezing._

_The Charles Bridge is surrounded by replica statues; did you know they had them all replaced after the Second World War?_

_You know that feeling you get when everything is old? Kind of. Ancient, I guess._

_You're in between time._

_I didn't understand, you were fourteen. Maybe almost fifteen. I don't remember. It hasn't been that long but everything feels strange._

_You said. You wrote it down. I was about as old as I am now and you said it was a nowhere cage._

_Like your life was that way. I didn't make sense then and I don't make sense now but I get it._

_A lot doesn't make sense but that does. I kept it. If you ever want it back, I kept it. Shit, if you even remember it._

_You hated it. I don't know why. Maybe it's hard to write when you can't breathe_

_Jensen_

He almost rips that one to pieces because it's non-linear and it doesn't _say_ anything.

There's no point in carving all of this out if Jared wouldn't even be able to make head or tail of it.

He's an idiot, clinging to a past where his place was in order.

Jared’s always gotten in the way of that.

-

He’s flying back when he reads the second letter, opens it fresh like he didn’t pen the damn thing himself.

_You watched me do something I promised your mother I’d never let you see. This is the result of that. I know I’m an asshole._

_Been nothing but since I was your age, the way you are now. That’s not what I’m apologizing for._

_I’m sorry I got blood on your face and your clothes and made you curl up broken. Sorry I cleaned you off and put you away and left because I don’t like the look of you in the morning._

_I won’t apologize for shooting him point blank, though. Not gonna give you any half-assed sorry for killing that son of a bitch._

_A dead brother is the same as the rest of them._

_You’re gonna scream and bitch and run over to that youngest, (she’s the real killer, Jay, don’t you understand?) and that’s gonna be what fucks you up._

_Not me. Never me._

_This isn’t going anywhere. Bout as fast as the last one I wrote but didn’t send you. You even read anymore? What do you like? Did we get so far that we don’t know one another?_

_I know I like sinking deep and making you wet._

_Jensen_

Jensen folds that one up into a triangle and stuffs it into his breast coat pocket. It’s an ugly one, full of hard lines and even more jagged edges and he doesn’t think Jared should see it even if Jensen had the wherewithal to show him.

He’s on a private jet, Legacy 650 that flaunts a wealth that he touches on the daily but can still only dream about.

There’s a pilot and co, flight attendant that he’s fucked a time or two, once on the way over to the Czech Republic and she’s waiting in the wings just in case he wants a repeat performance.

He’s had her cunt squeezing around him in a poor approximation and all he really wants now is to sleep.

When he’s delivered back to his family he’s going to be expected to sit with Jeff and parley over things that are above his pay-grade.

Gerald’s going to be giving him a call. And he’s supposed to see their youngest thick-fleshed and pretty, rounded with something that will forever not-belong.

He’ll see to him first.

* * *

The morning that he finds Jensen with Elise, Jared’s day is almost going well. 

Even though it starts with Antonio Antonelli (and, even Jared can appreciate the way Tony Antonelli’s name rings) in the sprawling space of the Antonelli foyer, his finger crooked casually about the handle of his teacup and his stubble rough-shaven. 

He drawls a smile at Jared, clear and charming, and it’s all Jared can do not to throw up food he hasn’t even eaten yet.

Antonio Antonelli is  _ married,  _ and Jared didn’t sit in the laps of those who were already taken. He wasn’t so egoistic to believe himself more important. And he certainly didn’t  _ need  _ to. But back when Antonio Antonelli’s voice still broke a bit, back when he stumbled his way through the tomes of Antonelli family history and could actually blush, Tony hung the moon for Jared.

Jared could only have been twelve, or so. He hadn’t had Gerald, only Jensen. Always Jensen.  He had only his mother, who kept him feminine and dainty. She bought him blushing-girl things and chiffon accessories pinker than the insides of his thighs. 

His mother always told him, he’d grown up pretty.

But even thinking of Tony gets his blood roaring.

He’s pressed close to Cris, now, Cristina Antonelli, their legs wound together. Jared likes the way the white silk of Cris’ pantsuit slips along his walking-stick legs. He presses for more coverage, and Cris’ arm around his waist settles in snug.

Cris is deep red lipstick personified, her voice a sultry hue of smoke that blows out between her lips as if from a fine cigar. “What kinda secrets are you keeping behind those honey-trap lips, Pink?” She asks, but doesn’t really ask- it’s what Cris does, just throws things out into the open and Jared can either grasp at them or let them dissipate. 

“If I tell you, they wouldn’t be secrets,” he breathes into the shell of her ear, lowers until his lips flirt with the back of her Chanel No. 5-scented neck. “I like this one.”

“Mm,” Cris purrs, her shoulders stretching and relaxing against Jared. She swipes her tongue at her full lips, and Jared tries to breathe because he  _ loves  _ Cris’ lipsticks. They have names like  _ virgin pink  _ and  _ prima donna cerise  _ and  _ corset strap magenta.  _

Cris tells him that he’d look awful pretty in a magenta corset. He usually laughs and tells her to get away from him, but their minds’ eyes dream the same.

_ Virgin pink  _ challenged the uptick of Jensen’s mouth, especially when Jared left signed, sealed lipstick-prints like promises on the mirror. 

“They call this one  _ proud to be a slut  _ red.” Cris hums, thoughtfully, before running the lacquer of her glossy fingertip over the dip of her pouting upper lip. “You stay still for a little while, and I’ll actually be able to put it on you.” She smiles, nasty, her teeth like two rows of Chiclets. “They say a man will crawl for a kiss.” 

Jared blooms under Cris’ influence, her cell-block-tango attitude bringing out the theatric in him. “I don’t need a kiss to make them crawl.” 

“Why, Cris, you do bring out the minx in Jared,” Elena hums from her perch on the settee. She blinks lustrous lashes at Jared once, and, like a dream, Jared’s caught up in the snare of the Antonelli sisters. Elena’s not even doing it on purpose, really- she’s young, adores Cris, and struggles to find her foothold in the clan.

Jared smiles at her, because she is beautiful, and he dreams of the Antonelli sisters sometimes, the way they dress, speak, exude feminine charm and drive their heels into the hearts of unsuspecting men. 

Mari, also draped luxuriously over the loveseat, yowls a frustrated sound after a moment of radio silence, at which Cris lifts her head and glowers balefully. Her nails puncture harmless kisses into Jared’s hips, and she purses her lips before withdrawing. “Something you’d like to say, Mariana?”

“I’m so-  _ bored.”  _ she wobbles to her doll-feet, her dress a tasteful shimmer of lace that crochets itself into barely legal stitches around her thighs. “Jared, come shopping with me.” 

Jared’s been meaning to go anyway, has had his eyes on these stilettos Cris showed him a weekend or so ago. They’re for no reason other than a little fantasy he has of wobbling around in them, craving the _click-click_ staccato of plastic against the marble. He can’t stop thinking of the sound when Cris does it, unable to banish the rhythm from his fantasies. 

He thinks they’d drive Jensen crazy.

Before he leaves, he lowers his mouth to Cris’ ear again. “Do you think they have  _ proud to be a slut  _ in pink?”

-

Jared and Mari are formidable when they shop. Jared, at least, is vaguely reserved, mainly to only the things he wants. He’s a firm believer of making lists and sticking to them, where Mari buys whatever takes the slightest bit of her fancy. She whirls through stores like a natural disaster, ruffles and silk and pins flying into the shopping carts.

It’s not like Mari pushes her own shopping cart, her tender limbs never straining during her flights through their favorite stores. 

Mari never breaks a nail over even rifling through clothes, instead choosing to step back and grace the clothes with her child-diva blue eyes while her bodyguard patiently slides the hangers down the rack for her to see.

Jared’s a bit more proactive; he flits around uncertainly, shame flushing his cheeks deep red as he moves one size higher than usual in his hunt for oversized black clothes that flatter his new swell. He hugs the wool of a black number to his cheek, ever-tactile and desperate for the bunny-soft touch.

“That one’s pretty, Jay-baby,” Mari drawls, fingering a fashionably springy thread. “Very warm. I hear the cold makes your skin chip, how horrid.”

Jared glances discreetly at a mirror, fever-flushed and wild-eyed as he searches for any obvious signs of his skin chipping. “I’ll take it.” He whispers, broken-voiced and desperate as he gathers the material into his willow-bendy arms. 

He switches shirts in the changing room after he pays, pulling the sweater over his tiny frame, letting it feather against his thighs, because he can’t stop thinking about his skin chipping and peeling and crumbling like plaster. It’s already a struggle to fix the clothes he has to make his belly vanish.

He turns every angle and scrutinizes his weed of a body in the mirror, then stuffs his shirt into the shopping bag and shuffles out to meet Mariana outside the store. 

They’re beelining for the next door when Jared finds his feet hovering somewhere back at the window of a baby store.

“Mari-” he calls, his voice a hushed whisper but she picks up on the impacted wistfulness and flutters her way back. He lifts a shaking finger to point at the most darling little onesie, in the theme of tiny adorable woodland creatures.

The bell chimes, merry, as Jared trickles in with a few mothers. He’s immediately charmed, attracted to tiny, white, ruffled socks, shiny-blue tap shoes and boots packed with fluff to keep baby feet warm in the winter.

“Can I help you, young man?” The sales assistant coos, at his elbow with a toothpaste-gleam smile as she critically lowers her eyes. Jared cradles his belly, shrinking away, seeks out Mari as he wonders if he looks  _ big.  _ “Oh, baby, how far along are you?” She holds out her hand but Jared trembles, doesn’t stop until she’s withdrawn.

“I just,” he hiccups, hugging himself, “I just want to, to hold-” he picks up the tiny blue booties, his slender hands cupping the velvet. “It’s so. It’s so small,” he whispers, only able to press three fingers into the hole of the sock. 

“It is,” she smiles, gazing at him, and somehow it’s crippling. Jared grips the little shoes and socks, his lower lip wobbling uncontrollably, and shakes to pieces on the floor of the baby store. His baby would have such little, little feet, that would fit perfectly into the curve of the soles of these little, little shoes. 

Everything is the same shade of tiny, in vibrant shades of pastel spring. Jared wants to buy everything.

“Jay-baby,” Mari stands at his elbow, stroking his curls with glittering nails. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“I just,” he sobs, unable to help himself with those shoes tucked against his palm, “I just want these shoes… I want these shoes, for my b-baby.” He gulps rapid, staccato breaths and hugs them close to his chest. 

“Okay. Okay, Jay.” Mari guides him to the counter as he does nothing to staunch the flow. The dam’s splintered, Jared’s too far gone, and he  _ needs these shoes.  _ “We can buy the shoes, Jay-baby.”

“I gotta find Jensen,” he cries, the wool rubbing against his cheek and leaving red scores, and his new baby-pink lipstick sticks to the strands. “I just w-wanna f-find Jensen and show him these p-precious little shoes, Mari. I-” He gulps the lock in his throat. “These little shoes for our baby.”

But the thing is, it’s not about the shoes; it’s about the swell of his belly, the warmth of life, the desperation to be close to Jensen.

Jared’s so far gone that he’s tumbling, Alice in his convoluted Wonderland of dizzy dreams and glittery veneer. 

-

It goes down all wrong. 

Jared’s a black-robed butterfly as he flutters into the apartment, where Jensen’s fucking Elise Porcelli into the fucking mattress, so hard that she’s practically spitting his name on chopped breaths. 

Jared’s not really sure where his mind goes, but he’s suddenly wild, fever-eyed and just a wisp of a dream in Jensen’s life. Insignificant, like a passing train car through his station with nothing but air inside. He stumbles back, Elise’s apology muted over the rippling ringing in his ears.

“Y-You-” Jared tries, blanches, and he feels like he’s been cemented to the fucking ground. His imagination carries him away like a helicopter seed, carries him to a darkened corner where he’s caught up in nightmares of Jensen carrying Elise to the bed like she’s his fucking bride.

He’s dreamed of white lace, too, but not when someone else is wearing it.

Jensen’s- fucking smiling, going, “You mind waiting outside, sweetheart? I'll be right with you.” -Jared’s not really sure when it got like this, each of them chasing what was so far on the opposite ends of the spectrum. But he’s angry in the way a child is angry, a moment’s worth of nauseated fury beaming out of him before it disintegrates into despair. 

“I can't--Jensen you're such a fucking  _ asshole,”  _ he breathes, weak-kneed, and it’s not as loud as he’d hoped, but the impact is all the same.

Jensen must think him provocative, flitting from Antonelli to Antonelli as if he hasn’t been trying to replace the shape of the gap Jensen’s left behind. It’s a frayed hole, and it stings every time he and Jensen pass, like trains bound for a collision. 

They meet here, slam into each other, and the force of the crash brings Jared to his knees hard.

Jensen’s at his side but Jared’s gone, spiraling, it’s like he’s overdosed on air, too much of it sweeping down into his lungs and rattling them. He feels like even his bones are taking the brunt of damage. His vision is waning, he can only see through the thinnest crescent of hazel left.   
  
“I hate you,” he thinks he might be dying, but he’s never felt like that before, because Jensen’s always been there to catch him. It’s funny how Jensen’s actually catching him now, but it’s now when Jared feels  the most alone.    
  
It’s actually not funny at all. 

“I can’t. I can’t breathe without you,” he only just manages, and he’s fucking  _ wheezing  _ because  _ this morning  _ he bought the tiniest baby shoes with their sweet ruffled socks and now his entire world’s been jammed through the wringer and all that’s being squeezed out is frigid, blistering fear. “I can’t do it alone,” he continues, making a colossally weak swipe for Jensen that leaves his fingers fluttering against Jensen’s abdomen instead. 

“Don't make me raise it alone. P--please don't go away again,” he stutters his way into unconsciousness, his words curling into soft ash and falling away like a fallen empire of devotion. An empire that he’d built on Jensen. 

He’s never felt fear so vivid like in this moment.

-

He almost laughs when he hears that Jensen’s gone again.

It’s because he’s big, it’s got to be because he’s so- goddamn -big. He’s ugly, and Jensen only goes for the waifish, willow ones that squeeze into the negative sizes and dance like seaweed in the breeze, and Jared’s officially positive. 

Jared does his best, though, because he’s nothing if he’s not persistent. He pouts his lips in the mirror like he’s the front cover of Vogue, smears  _ proud to be a slut pink  _ over the purse of his candy mouth, shimmies into his favorite strappy cerise sandals, and pulls on his favorite dress shirt. 

He almost looks like he could be one of Jensen’s girls, now. 

His go-to is Mari, because she's a queen, and she always brings some absolutes to the abstract messes that Jensen leaves behind. 

One of those abstract messes being Jared himself.

Mari’s not there when he first walks in, and neither, thank Christ, is Tony. 

Jared’s got this thing for older men, self-destructive and honey-sweet, the in-between of his legs virgin shy for them. Antonio Antonelli was the first one to star in his little-boy dreams, the surrogate patriarch of the Antonelli clan and the one whose palm would encompass Jared’s entire head when he pet him. 

To Antonio, Jared was “pet,” and sometimes it still slips from Antonio’s lips with a fond smirk. “Pet, what are you doing here? You here to see Mari?” Or, “Pet, you’re here so often that you’re basically part of the family.”

The way Matty touches him, Jared figures they’re way past family. 

The very sight of Antonio makes Jared’s knees weak, even though he’s worked himself over and over, convinced himself that the boy crush has dissipated. Jared, relieved at the older man’s absence, languishes on the couch, foal legs stretched out over the sleek velvet as he closes his eyes and waits for Mari.

His half-slumber is disturbed by the record-scratch of Matty’s voice, legs automatically tucking inwards as Matty lifts him from the couch and into his arms easily, as if Jared weighs nothing even though he feels so desperately, terribly big.

“Christmas come early,” Matty drawls, and Jared scrunches his eyes half-closed, still partially asleep and fatigued from fretting over Jensen. He shivers as he’s lowered onto cool marble, his thighs settled against the speckled surface and trembling. “Next time, use ribbon,” Matty suggests, fondling a bunch of grapes before pulling his hand back towards Jared. “I do love unwrapping my presents.”

Jared doesn’t really put up a fight; he’s weak, he’s tired, he’s aching for some sort of replacement. “Don’t tease me.”

Matty’s mouth curls up at one side. “Haven’t I told you that you don’t get to demand things from me?” He pushes a grape past Jared’s lips, presses his index finger against the dip of his mouth, and Jared swallows even though he doesn’t want to eat. He doesn’t want to feel even bigger.

“Where’s your watchdog, hunh?” he peruses, one broad hand splayed over Jared’s thigh, petting, trapping him in. 

“O-Out of town,” Jared swallows down another grape and lowers his eyes, tongue swiping at the last traces of his lipstick. “I- I don’t know.”

Matty’s thumb presses against his bottom lip, head ducking as he scrutinizes Jared’s pink-pink mouth. “Cris,” he growls after a moment, “This is her lipstick, isn’t it?” 

Jared shakes his head as one of Matty’s hands grips the nape of his neck. “I- I bought it myself.” He staggers out a whimper-breath. “D-Do you like it?” 

Matty makes no real attempt to conceal the ravenous hunger in his eyes, then leans forward to slant his mouth over Jared’s. “Only if you wear it for me.” His hand splays over Jared’s spine, and Jared huffs out a choppy, adrenaline-spiked breath against Matty’s lips. 

“Mm,” Jared hums, even though there’s really only one person he’d ever want to wear this lipstick for. 

“You’re a bigger slut than my sister,” Matty growls, and his fingers probe past the seam of Jared’s lips. Jared opens up, flower of his mouth blooming and petal-lips spreading for Matty’s fingers. The pad of his index finger swipes across the inside of Jared’s cheek, and Jared shivers as the metallic tang of ash and gunpowder melts on his tongue.

Matty grins, feral. “Think we could get you used to this,” he presses against Jared’s tongue. “The way you open up for me, nightingale, it’s…” He pauses. “Love.”

Jared’s not sure what it is, but he’s not sure if it’s love. He holds Matty’s gaze for a moment, then slowly pulls back, kissing his fingertips as he does. He puts Matty above the other Antonellis, save Mari, but he’s certainly not touching Jensen. Jensen’s got a penthouse view in Jared’s list of favorites, and he’s practically leaning to look down at the others.

Here’s the thing: he worships Jensen, prays to Jensen, reveres Jensen. Jensen’s got him wrapped into this cocoon of dizzy dreams and heartbreak, but Jared’s just only on the precipice of adulthood. He’s still falling, gravity drawing him to the ones who love him.

He has so much to give, but it’s a messy world he lives in and he can’t be sure of who’s giving back.

He doesn’t know who loves him and who loves to possess him, but he’s signing and sealing away pieces of his heart with his lipstick kisses. 

Jared’s world is a map of lights. Matty’s dimming the southern hemisphere, and now he’s creeping into the north, where Jensen’s lighting candles. Jared figures, the way it’s going- with Jensen constantly leaving all the time -Matty will eventually darken Jared’s world. Put out the lights that Jensen’s constantly lit since Jared was just a child. 

Truth: Matty’s influence is leeching away at Jared, soothing over the fray that Jensen’s left behind. Matty leaves his own marks, in the form of purple-blue-green bruises all over Jared’s neck and shoulders, but the tear over his heart, Jensen’s staked that one.

He’s so tired that he tumbles into Matty’s arms, half-unconscious.

-

Something’s wrong.

-

It starts with falling. Falling asleep, falling into long, aching stretches of time where he pines for Jensen and holes up into his lonely-boy dreams, falling into this… bleakness that just won’t go away. The falling gives way to pain, pain, pain.

It’s weird, because- Well, butterflies in Jared’s social circles have explained to him that he doesn’t truly  _ know  _ pain. It’s said indulgently, because they have nothing but fondness for the most tender-limbed Padalecki, but it’s followed by a tremor of a story teeming with heartbreak and loss.

Jared’s caused pain to Jensen before, too, when he was still blooming and he’d sputter abuse and vitriol with his tiny trembling fists curled into bee-sting punches. Jensen never flinched but Jared could see the hollow in his eyes, especially when Jared tipped over into the topic of Jensen’s unwavering loyalty.

Days when Jared thought he could goad Jensen into bending him over his knees and ripping the punishment into his ass.

But right now… Whatever this is, these empty, Jensen-shaped days, they’re painful. 

Jared spends a lot of time on the scale, and he thinks maybe if he could lose a little more from his already slightly gaunt cheeks, it might make up for the belly weight. He’s always liked a bit of a gothic touch anyway, fever-eyes and turtlenecks and all. 

Turtlenecks really hug his belly, though, so he’s had to… He’s had to stop, even though he’s always been enchanted by the way turtleneck threatens his slim bird neck into a chokehold. Cocoons his body and hides away all the imperfections.

Jared strokes the suspension-bridge swoops standing out in stark clarity against the skin of his neck and thinks of the nowhere cage, all of a sudden.

It’s this… It was this shitty thing he’d strung together, when he’d been learning Greek, it was- Just fragments and dirt. Jared hated it then, he hates it now. He hates that he’s thinking of the nowhere cage, a product of his own unfettered imagination. 

It’s one of the things he feels the filthiest about.

He tries to write now, letters with no destination because- because he doesn’t even know where Jensen is. He feels like he’s suffocating, buried alive in his own fresh secrets. They smell like dirt and earthworms.

_ Jen- _

_ I thought of the nowhere cage today. Weird, right? _

_ You bastard, I’d send you a letter if I knew where the fuck you are. I never know where you are. Sometimes I throw darts at the map in my room and imagine that you might be wherever I managed to stick the dart. I imagine you taking me with you _

_ ‘Course, I probably won’t be going anywhere these days what with how huge I am.  _

_ Is it because I’m ugly? That why you keep leaving, cause _

_ I mean, I can be pretty again. I can. It’s just a matter of knowing what to use, you know? Shit, Jensen, just give me some sign of approval here. What am I doing wrong? _

_ Is it the antonelli thing? _

_ It’s the antonelli thing. _

_ Call it maternal instinct. Every time you show up it starts to get better and heal, like a wound stitching itself back up, but the threads aren’t strong enough, so the next time you leave, you _

_ Tear right through them, you bastard, you just blow clean through all my threads and now who’s gonna pick up that shit? ‘Cause you know I can barely bend over anymore, I just have all these loose half-threads spilling everywhere and it’s fucking difficult to knot them back together again, so… _

_ So I just get them to do it. They’ll do it, you know. Mend me up good and proper, until you SHOW UP IN MY LIFE AGAIN _

_ This has to be torture. I must be in Hell. Remember how you taught me about how Zeus was a crafty bastard who came up with a whole variety of nasty punishments for those who disobeyed him? You’re my fucking eagle, Jensen. I’m Prometheus and you’re the eagle and you’re tearing out my goddamn liver  _

_ Shit, I can’t even drink alcohol anyway, so it’s not like I need my liver _

_ You get it, don’t you? The metaphor, I mean. Because I can’t say it any clearer than this _

He folds the paper and squeezes it into his fists. Nestles it into the slim cover of the pillow and rests his head against it.

Can’t send a letter when you have no goddamn idea where to send it to, anyway. 

* * *

Matteo Antonelli  _ really  _ doesn’t fuck around. 

He feels like he spends a lot of time enforcing that one little fact, and maybe he wouldn’t have to use shitty Kleenex to dirty-scrub his hands if people actually listened to him.

Rafe used to say, “It’s better to be respected than feared.”

Matt’s a firm believer of, “why not both?”

Rafe’s dead anyway, which really goes to show a fuck of a lot, and Matt gets his rocks off being both respected and feared- by his family, by the adoring public… And by Jared. 

The bitch of it is that Matt can’t tell how much Jared respects him, seeing as he’s the only one who calls him Matty when Matteo has told him time and time again that it’s either “Matt,” “Matteo,” or, if he really wants, “Sir.” 

It’s not like Matt hasn’t thought about Jared’s lips shaping the word “Sir” for him. 

The precious slip of a boy has called him Matty since he was told not to, has wrists licked up and down with black and blue from Matt’s lost tempers. But since the last incident, over two years ago, Matt’s been more curious than annoyed.

Jay’s gotten real pretty, too. 

Matt kind of nudges his bedroom door open with the muzzle of his still-warm gun, his expression running a gamut of flicker-expressions at the raised blankets swaddling his favorite boy. 

It only takes a minute for him to ease off his shirt and tumble beside Jared, so gently, all his muscle mass bunching tight, working to keep Jared asleep and relaxed and soft. 

His boy is a wisp, sleeps like a cartoon; a feather-curl of hair just above his lips flies every time Jared blows out a breath. Matt slips his hand between Jared's legs and runs a thumb against the hollow, bird-joints where Jared's thigh touches his hip. 

Jared stirs a little, eyelashes fluttering at half-mast as he responds to the touch. He lifts his upper body slightly, but Matt goes  _ sh-sh-sh  _ and Jared relents and falls back into his harmless lethargy. 

Matt rests his head against the bow space between Jared's harpstring legs and sighs, lifting his head just slightly so he can plant a kiss against Jay’s tender belly, and that's when he feels the slight swell of skin that protrudes just past the plane of silk. 

Even though it's so impossible, he imagines a gold palace of a life with Jared, with limestone fountains that bubble forward with wine, with children that kiss his hand and call for him.

But even if Jared's mouth gifts kisses freely, even if he's indolent in the laps of every Antonelli, even if he bats his eyelashes and smiles pretty for the most distant of strangers, he's never given his sweetest boy parts up to Matt, which means that the life blooming in Jared cannot be Matt’s.

It doesn't retract from Jared's desirability, but for a second, Matty’s so fucking angry, he thinks he could shatter the closest soaked-tender bones into dust with the heel of his palm. 

It drains out of him presently, and all that's left is vague sadness that's somehow stayed in the colander. Matty shifts, index finger skating over the glide of Jared's hole through his nightgown, but he doesn't know why he's bothering with it. 

Jared curls like a leaf, arches slightly into the touch like a sunflower. He's so tiny like this, vulnerable and so, so heartbreakingly thin. Matty’s never known anyone so conscious as Jared.

He fucking hates this.

There's no doubt of the fact that Matteo is the most brutal of the Antonellis, but he's also written unsent love letters for the only boy that's ever starred in his dreams. He doesn't have to be Rafe to harbor the same amorous feelings, albeit less gentle than his weaker brother. 

Matt's dreamed about having Jared rough against countertops and walls, and he's not exactly denying it.

But maybe he thinks there's a future to be had, at some point, because Jared isn't just a flight of fancy. 

And Matteo? He's here till the bitter, bitter end. 

Jared emerges from the chrysalis of sleep like a dew-burdened butterfly, his shoulders held by the weight of his every concern, and Matt is there when he does.

“‘S time?” The breath of a voice has Matty angling a little towards the clock.

“Late, nightingale,” he says, but soothing. “Lay your head back down.”

Jared frowns, the expression slow as he tries to make heads or tails of where he is. It soon melts to give way for fatigue, and Jared lies back down with one arm extended and one set of fingers flexing for Matteo, like a newborn. 

Matt hums as he draws close to Jared's profile. He cocoons Jared in, keeps him warm for the night. 

And Jared sleeps. 

**Author's Note:**

> Additional tag: Mpreg.
> 
> Also, we love reviews, so drop one if you'd like! There's more to come~


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